Murphy's Law
by Gandalf3213
Summary: A collection of one-shots where anything that can go wrong will go wrong. Chapter 15: Rachel usually likes it when people compliment her singing, but after one date Kyle already seems weirdly possessive. She ignores the problem until he threatens Kurt. Then it gets personal.
1. Kidnapped

**Disclaimer: We don't own any part of Glee, or else we'd be chilling with the cast right now.**

**Warnings: This might get graphic. Mentions rape and kidnapping.**

**A/N: We thought of the title of this story first. Murphy's Law. Anything that can go wrong will go wrong. Doesn't that sound like a collection of fanfiction oneshots? It does to us. By the way (we'll reiterate this every chapter) if there's a particular story you want to see written (that fits the Murphy's Law thing) just drop us a line and we'll see what we can do.**

**Summary: Kidnapping is something that happens in books and tv shows, not in Lima Ohio. Definately not to Kurt and Blaine. Takes place season 2, when Kurt is still at Dalton.**

**.***.**

_"You're looking at Act One, Scene One, of a nightmare, one not restricted to witching hours or dark, rain swept nights." **The Twilight Zone**_

.***.

"Kurt, will you turn that down?" Finn griped from the kitchen counter where he was honestly trying to grasp the concepts of trigonometry. After football and Glee, he had precious few nighttime hours in which to do his homework, eat, and have some semblance of a social life. And Kurt and his obsession with watching the news was killing him.

"No, wait a second," Burt said, glancing up from the stove long enough to see the story coming up. "Turn that up, Kurt. Just for a second, Finn. I need to see what they're doing about this guy."

As the volume got louder, the words became more defined. "…police now saying is the work of a serial kidnapper in northwest Ohio. Dylan Marks with the story." The female voice gave way to a serious-sounding male, and now even Finn turned in his chair to stare at the television.

"The victims so far have been all male, ranging in ages from eleven to sixteen. So far five boys have been taken, starting with one in Toledo and working down south throughout the state. Yes, it does seem that the alleged kidnapper is working his way up in ages. Yes, the last time there were two boys taken at once. Er…yes, it's hard to give advice on this situation. We're not sure if it's the work of one man. He chooses his towns randomly, his victims randomly. No pattern has emerged. We can only advise young boys to be extra vigilant and to report any suspicious activity to the police."

The next segment was the latest on a celebrity love triangle, and Kurt snapped off the television with a press of the button. "Wow," Finn said, still staring at the blank screen. "So this guy has been picking up kids all over Ohio?"

"For the past three or four weeks, yeah." Burt said, wiping his hands absently on a dish towel. He looked concerned. "You two, don't take any risks, okay? These things are just a story on a news until it happens to you."

"Why would a kidnapper come to Lima?" Kurt huffed, then put up his hands when his father rounded on him. "But we'll be careful anyway, dad. Buddy system, no dark alleyways, the whole shebang." He smiled, crossed his heart. "Scout's honor."

"Finn?" Burt rounded on the other teen, who'd turned back to his homework.

"Yeah, no risks, Burt. I promise."

The story was mostly forgotten after that, until a week later when Blaine's father called the Hummel household, asking if they knew where his son was.

.***.

The first six hours after Kurt and Blaine went missing were the worst.

In the end, the police figured out that they must have been taken between four and five, when walking from a bus stop to Kurt's house after Warbler's practice. But they weren't declared as missing until five hours later.

Burt had looked up at the clock at six when Finn stumbled in after football practice. "Shower," the teen muttered, making his way up the stairs.

"Dinner's in half an hour!" Burt called over the slam of the door. It was then that he began to wonder where Kurt was – sometimes he stayed late at Dalton, but usually he was in before six on days he was bringing Blaine home for dinner. Burt got the feeling that his son's boyfriend didn't eat a lot of home cooked meals.

By the time dinner was almost done, Finn was moving down the stairs, wincing with every step. "I got some frozen peas if you want them," Burt said, "And some hot water if you want the heat."

"Cold," Finn muttered, leaning against the counter and lifting his shirt so Burt could just see the edges of an ugly bruise.

"Hey, will you text Kurt for me?" Burt never was good at manipulating the tiny keyboard, and the speed at which Finn and his mother could text was frankly terrifying. If Carol hadn't gone to visit her sister for the week, he would have asked her. "He was supposed to be here an hour ago."

Finn grunted and slid his cell phone out of his pocket, sending off a text with one hand as he used the other to hold up the peas. "He probably just lost track of time."

"That's been happening a lot more often since he and Blaine became a 'thing.'" Burt muttered, feeling the beginnings of annoyance creep on him. "I'll have to talk to him about it."

Finn shrugged. "I wouldn't sweat it. It's his first relationship. That can be pretty crazy." He frowned at his phone. "Huh. Usually Kurt's freakishly fast at responding."

"I give up," Burt muttered, picking up the phone (this one still had a cord) and dialing his son's number. Kurt had told him that actually getting a call on a cell phone was _so 2009_ but what was he to do? The food was getting cold.

"He's not picking up." Burt said, and now Finn was standing up straight. This was still early in the game, though. He was looking more confused than scared.

"Wait, I've got Blaine's number in here somewhere." He didn't bother sending a text, he just dialed, tucking the tiny phone between shoulder and ear. Ten rings, fifteen, and he conceded defeat and hung up.

"Why would they both have their phones off?" Burt asked, "I thought that your guys's hearts would stop beating if you didn't have a direct line of communication."

"I'll call Mercedes." Finn volunteered.

But Mercedes hadn't talked to Kurt since the day before, and even though Santana helpfully supplied the numbers of a couple of key Warblers (how she'd gotten those numbers Finn didn't bother to find out) they didn't know much more than anyone else.

"They left in kind of a hurry." David supplied, "Something about a family dinner?"

"What time?"

"I don't know…must have been two hours ago."

Seven o'clock melted into eight before Finn dared to voice the same thing Burt had been thinking for hours. "You remember that story on the news a week ago?"

"They weren't kidnapped, Finn. This isn't a mystery novel."

"You said it yourself." The peas had been forsaken long ago, but Finn still winced when he pushed himself to this full height. "You said that it could happen to us."

"But I didn't think it actually _would_!" Burt protested. "Not to Kurt and Blaine together. That would be too conspicuous."

"Kurt can't fight to save his life." Finn said, talking fast now, unable to stop the words from spilling out of his mouth. "And Blaine isn't much better. And if they were rushing here from Dalton they would have taken the alley from the bus stop to Pearshall Street. Almost no one goes down there anymore."

"You guys shouldn't go down there, either." Burt growled, "I thought you weren't taking unnecessary risks?"

"C'mon, Burt." Finn said, "No one actually expects to be kidnapped. Like you said, it happens in mystery novels, not in real life."

"Call Mercedes again," Burt said, standing firm. "He wasn't kidnapped."

At nine, when Blaine's father called to see where his son was. At nine, after Finn had called everybody in Glee club, everybody in the Warblers, everybody he could think of at least twice. At nine, when a story about the serial kidnapper re-aired…that's when concern and frustration turned to fear.

.***.

A week went by. No one in the Glee club could concentrate on school. They spent most of their free time scouring the neighborhoods, hoping to see something, anything. Hoping for a sign. They never went in anything less than groups of three, and always a football player among them.

Blaine's father was often at the Hummel household. He was a businessman who'd raised Blaine by himself and wasn't exactly keen on the idea that his son might still be around if he wasn't off having dinner at his boyfriend's house. He was a strict man, a serious man, and he was seriously worried about his only son. They'd left things on a bad note – the whole past year had been a bad note. He couldn't imagine not being able to rectify his mistakes.

Cops and media swarmed the house. The other parents of the kidnap victims called or came by, talking obsessively about the case until it seemed like the house was heavy with the names: Billy, Christian, John, Jake, Ryan, and then Kurt and Blaine.

Finn could recite the list in his sleep. Billy was ten, had been taken from Toledo when he was walking home alone from a skate park. Christian, also ten, had been walking to a friend's house. John was twelve, had been bird watching by a secluded lake. Jake and Ryan, fourteen, were best friends on their way home from a swim meet.

What no one talked about is what might be happening to the boys. They talked in terms of _dead_ and _not dead_. Finn couldn't help but think about the other things, though. The things you read about in grisly news stories. The things that happened, even if you don't talk about them.

And even though most of them weren't especially religious, the Glee club went to their respective churches each night and prayed and prayed for their friends to be alive.

It was something terrible that always happened somewhere else in the world. Now that it happened to them, it felt like a nightmare.

.***.

The police got the guy because he was stupid, because he tried to take three boys at once (he was getting greedy) and one of them had looked mild-mannered but ended up being a black belt in karate. By the time the police got to him, he had a broken nose and a fractured wrist.

He'd spilled his hideout easily enough. Partly because someone had told them they could reduce his sentence, but mostly because someone else had told him they could get him into solitary, and the guy knew what happened in prison to people who messed with kids.

Three of the seven boys were still alive. The other four had been buried in shallow graves in the back yard. One of the graves had dandelions growing on it. A police officer had thrown up in the bushes when he saw that.

Blaine cried when he saw his father. He cried until there was no noise, then no tears. He kept crying, burying himself in his father's arms. He was filthy, and naked except for the loose pants a kind officer had thought to bring in the building with him. He had a broken arm, and cuts all over his body. No one had the heart to take him away from his father. And he kept crying.

Kurt didn't cry. He was murmuring softly to Ryan even as police swarmed the house. "You have to let him go, Ry. Your parents are outside, and they'll be so happy to see you. It's okay now."

"Jake's dead!" Ryan snapped, hugging his friend's body closer. "Would everything be okay if Blaine had died?"

Kurt left then, because he was too numb, because he'd spent the last week in misery, because he needed to see that Blaine was alive and well and mostly whole.

He didn't cry when his father hugged him. He didn't cry when he saw the whole Glee club on the other side of the police tape, all with tears of joy running down their cheeks. He didn't cry when someone hugged him and pressed hard against his broken ribs.

He cried when Blaine turned around and opened his arms. He cried, because even though everything was awful, and terrible, and wrong, he still had Blaine, and they were still alive, and somehow that made everything a little bit better.

.***.

Here's what Blaine and Kurt told their parents, the Warblers, and New Directions. Here's what never got published, because they were still minors which meant HANDS OFF to the press, who never got to publish the juicy parts of the story.

After glee rehearsal, they'd gotten lattes at the café and caught the bus into the heart of Lima. At the bus stop, Blaine had kissed Kurt for thirty seconds, a minute, and someone had driven by and honked at them.

"That's not why we were taken, though." Kurt said, "None of the other boys were gay."

They'd wandered down the alley more out of habit than actual premeditated thought. They were laughing together at something one of them had said, and their laughter had echoed off the buildings. They barely noticed the car until it stopped in front of them.

"He got Kurt right away. Just grabbed his arm and stuck a knife under his neck." Blaine shivered at the memory of the drops of blood trailing from where the knife pressed too hard. "Said that if I didn't get in the car he'd kill Kurt."

"I told Blaine to run." Kurt said, touching Blaine's arm. "But of course he didn't. You're such an idiot." He kissed Blaine's fingers, the ones that weren't wrapped up in the cast. "Such an idiot."

Their audience was silent, though Burt was shaking with barely controlled rage and some of the girls were already crying. Puck, Sam, Finn, and most of the other guys there were just praying for five minutes alone with the monster who'd done this.

"Billy and Christian were already dead when he got there. That's why he took us, we think. He wanted to restock." Blaine ran a hand through his hair, looked at Kurt helplessly.

"What you think happened next happened." Kurt said listlessly. "Except that Blaine fought the guy tooth and nail, which is how Blaine broke his arm. He only took me three times, though. Blaine got in a couple of good hooks, and I don't think the guy liked having to work. So he'd just take Blaine instead. How many times?"

"I didn't count." Blaine said offhandedly, as if being raped was something you could forget that easily. He was proud of the fact that he'd saved Kurt (well, mostly, and those three times had been hell for Blaine, who would scratch at the walls and scream Kurt's name the entire time he was gone. And they'd done something the first night, because Jake and Ryan had told them in whispers what happened when one of them got taken from the tiny room, and Blaine and Kurt didn't want their first time to be with someone who didn't love them. So they did something that first night that made it so that getting raped wasn't their first time, and whenever Blaine got taken from the room he thought of Kurt.)

"He'd kill the boys if they cried. I don't think he was sane for most of it. If you cried, he just knifed you. If you were lucky, you died fast." Kurt shuddered at the thought of John, who hadn't been lucky and hadn't died fast. In the end, Kurt had put his head on his lap and he and Blaine sang and sang and when they finished the song the light had gone from the boy's eyes.

"We lived because whenever we wanted to cry we'd sing instead." Blaine said simply. But that wasn't the truth. They'd lived because they'd wanted to live. They'd lived because Kurt needed Blaine to be alive and Blaine needed Kurt, and though dying would have been easier they couldn't let the other one down.

.***.

**Do ya'll get the plot of this story? There is no plot. It's a collection of unrelated, AUish one-shots that all revolve around "what would happen if the worst happened?" We might revisit the chapters in the future, we might not. It honestly depends on what you guys want. Do you like it? Hate it? Hate it so much you never want to see it again? Tell us. We know it's strange and rough and off-center. We also know that sometimes you just want to read something like this.**

**Or write it.**


	2. Jumped

**Warnings: A couple of non-graphic mentions of abuse**

**Summary: Puck's day goes from bad to worse when he gets jumped by three pissed linebackers.**

**.***.**

_"Life really only has one beginning and one end and the rest is just a whole lot of middle." **Will Schuester**_

.***.

Puck was having a truly crappy day.

It had started that morning, when he was woken up by his mom's boyfriend. The broken bottle didn't really do much damage to his stomach, thank god, because _that_ would have been embarrassing, but it did leave a nasty bruise and a couple of cuts that he would have hid if Finn hadn't turned up in the exact wrong moment when he was trying to fix the Band-Aids in the bathroom.

Finn was talking before he was even in the door. "Hey, man. Heard you got reamed out by Figgins for being late again. You know you can call me if your car is acting up – woah." He stopped, stared at Puck's side which was a mess from football and the swings Harold got in before Puck could make it up the stairs. "Dude, that looks bad."

"It's nothing. You should see the other guy." He winced as he pulled up the Band-Aid. The bleeding had stopped, but now there was some dried blood to add to the black and blue and green effect of the bruises. He looked like a fucking Picasso.

"Is the other guy named Harold?" Finn guessed, taking the Band-Aids. Puck jerked away – he didn't need anyone's help. He'd been doing this alone long enough. "It's on your back, man. No way you can reach it alone."

"Whatever. Thanks." Puck stared at the wall while Finn smoothed the Band-Aids over his various cuts. He felt fingers linger over scars so old he couldn't really remember getting them. His mother had always had shitty taste in men. "I can't wait for this year to be over." Puck said, his voice quiet, rage-filled. "I'm getting out of that house the second I turn eighteen."

"Where will you go?" Finn murmured. He had been thinking about the next year, too. For a lot of reasons – college applications showing up at his house. Kurt and Rachel's high-flying plans to go to New York. The fact that Blaine was going to take over his role in the glee club. He'd been asking himself where he wanted to go a lot lately.

Puck pulled his shirt back down and leaned against the sink. "I dunno. Away from here." He passed an arm over his eyes so fast that Finn couldn't even see the moisture there. "I'm getting out of this fucking school." He winced when the bell rang, "Maybe I'll start now."

"What – no, Puck, c'mon. We have the first game of the season tonight. No way the Beaste will let you play if you bail on school." Finn caught Puck's arm. "We can't win without you, Puck."

"We're not going to win. We're the worst team in the division."

"We have to try."

They stared at each other, two almost-men in a school bathroom. Two almost-men who still couldn't figure out how to stop getting beaten up by their mother's boyfriends, who were so worried about the future it actually made them sick. Two almost-men who weren't really talking about football at all.

"And maybe," Finn said, breaking the silence, "Maybe you can talk to Mr. Schue? He's decent at working the system. Maybe he can help you with Harold."

"Schue has no idea what shit we go through." Puck said, almost smiling at the thought. "Who am I to wreck his little bubble?"

.***.

They ended up winning. Cherokee wasn't exactly a hospitable field to play at – the crowd booed every time they started a play, and Santana later told the boys about some of the lewd things they yelled at the cheerleaders. But they won anyway, mostly because Puck decided to focus all his frustrations on the Cherokee quarterback and had personally sacked him five times. Partly because Finn threw for three touchdowns, one to Mike Chang, who was becoming a really decent receiver.

But they paid for their win in blood. Cherokee was huge – even the kicker was bigger than their biggest player. And they went back to the locker room happy with the results, but with pulled muscles and bruises and cuts and insults still ringing in their ears.

"God, can you say _sore losers_?" Finn stripped off his jersey and winced as he pulled his arm out of the sleeve. He would later swear that the red spot on his elbow was from where a particularly nasty linebacker had bitten him.

"I can say _sore_." Mike assured him. He was actually happy to be distracted by the dull throb of his sore body. And it was like Puck was reading his mind…

"I heard what that guy said to you," Puck hadn't taken off his jersey yet. He didn't like showing off his scars to the world. "Want me to mess him up?"

"It doesn't matter." Mike muttered, even though it did matter, even though when he heard what the guy said he'd turned red with shame, as if his slanted eyes and flat face was something to be ashamed of. "They were saying stuff about everyone."

"Still…"

"Forget about it. You don't want to risk juvie again."

Puck nodded, trying to believe that Mike was really okay with the really racist things that were said, trying to believe that juvie would be worse than living with Harold for the next nine months. And somehow time passed, and Finn kneeling in front of him, looking concerned. "You okay man? Can you get out of your pads?"

"What? Yeah, I'm fine. Look, I'll catch a ride home. Tell the bus to leave without me."

"Huh? Puck, no, come on. Everyone's gone. I don't care about the scars." Finn said, guessing correctly that the reason Puck hadn't started stripping off the heavy, sweat-stained uniform when he came off the field was because he didn't want anyone to see his back.

"It's fine, Finn. Maybe I'll hitch home." Finn still looked skeptical, and Puck rolled his eyes. "Look, I'll call you later mother hen. I can take care of myself."

"You're badass, I get it." Finn slapped him on the shoulder. "Good game, man. Don't even think about going after the Cherokee guys. Like Mike said, it's not worth it if you go to juvie."

"I'll be a good boy," Puck said, and now he took off his shirt, the shoulder pads, because there was no one to look at his back and sides except for the only person in the world he honestly trusted. "See you tomorrow. Glee, right?"

"Right."

.***.

People were still leaving the stadium when Puck came out, thinking that he might catch a ride home with some hot McKinley girls heading out of the stadium. He was walking over to them when the hand caught his shoulder and shoved him into the trees. "Think you can come to our field and disrespect us like that?" A voice said, and Puck recognized that voice as the same one that had said that Mike should get back on the boat with all his other Ching Chong friends and die in the next tsunami.

To be fair, they probably would have jumped anyone. To be fair, Puck got a couple swings in before one pinned his arms to his side. To be fair, they stopped when Puck was a bloody mess, when they'd ripped his letterman jacket to shreds and broken two ribs.

And then they left him huddled in the dark, which wasn't fair at all.

.***.

Will Schuester finally extracted himself from the conversation with the principal of Cherokee. "Yes, our glee club was disbanded years ago. I was thinking of starting another one when I heard an Ohio club made it to Nationals, but after listening to that Sue Silvester talk about how we mustn't support the arts I thought 'why bother?'"

Schue tried to be polite, but listening to a half hour of this after the football game was a little much. He'd gone to support his students, and Finn and Puck especially had played a nice game, but he'd had to step in when some of the Cherokee students started harassing the cheerleaders. "Thanks Mr. Schue." Britney had said, looking a little shocked at what the boys had said to her, and Will was sure that Britney Pierce had had more than a couple of rude comments hurled at her by boys. "The crowd's really fierce here."

He left her with Santana, who was more than capable of kicking a boy where it hurt, before clambering back up the bleachers to see the truly remarkable touchdown pass Finn through to Mike to secure the game. Tina, who was sitting in front of him with Mercedes, Kurt, and Blaine, jumped up and down and blew kisses at her boyfriend from the field. Schue smiled, glad he had come to see this.

But still, by the end he'd wanted to head to his empty house and get some sleep. Emma was gone for an all-state counselor's conference, so it was like being a bachelor again for the weekend. And sometimes he liked that – it meant he could sleep in the next day, than get something unhealthy like a donut and coffee before heading over to Glee rehearsal.

He was starting to look forward to a warm shower and late-night tv when he turned around the now-empty parking lot and his headlights flashed over something huddled in the grass. He didn't want to get out. He didn't want to walk over to find out it was a jacket, or a six pack. He didn't want to do anything to delay HOME and BED. But he did, because he heard his father's voice in his head, reading him the story of the Good Samaritan at least once a week. "If you can save just one person's life, Will." He used to say to little Will Schuester, "Than yours will have been worth living."

Damn his father and his moral compass. He put the car in park and went to investigate.

"Puck?" He would have recognized that Mohawk anywhere, and quickened his pace. Sure, the Mohawk looked like Puck, but the blood, the bruises, the scars… "Puck, are you alright?"

The mass groaned and moved feebly, and Schue fell to his knees next to it, already taking off his coat to cover the student's naked torso. The kid was shivering, and flinched violently at Schue's hand. "Hey! Hey, Puck, it's okay. It's Mr. Schuester. Can you look at me? Puck, can you tell me how hurt you are? Can you tell me who did this to you?"

"Not that hurt," Puck muttered, "They punch like pussies."

"It looks bad," Schue said uncertainly, but Puck's voice was strong and he was lifting his head now, clutching Schue's coat around his shoulders. "Do you want me to take you to the hospital?"

"No!" Puck said, sitting up suddenly and wincing as the world spun. "I don't need a hospital."

"Some of this looks bad. You could have broken ribs."

"So? Isn't like I haven't had them before." Puck sounded like his usual self, and he looked right in the teacher's eyes when he said, "I know what being really hurt feels like, Mr. Schue. I'm not going to die on you. Scout's honor."

"Okay," Schue said, thinking that he would drive Puck to the hospital at the first sign of distress. "Let's talk about this in the car. It's freezing out here."

.***.

Will was driving, so he had to stop shooting Puck these sidelong glances. "You want to tell me what happened?"

"Cherokee was pissed we won. Some of the guys took it out on me because I stayed late. It's no big deal. I got a couple of punches in."

"You could report them."

"They'd just say I started it. I'm the one with the record. I'd be the one in juvie." Puck was still trying to decide if juvie or Harold was worse. He hadn't quite made up his mind. "I'll survive."

"You shouldn't have to. What they did was wrong."

"Seriously, it's okay. I would have found them if they hadn't found me. They said some seriously nasty stuff to some of our players. We were all looking for a fight." Puck was still in pain, but he managed to wave a hand at Schue when he said, "And don't tell me fighting never solved anything. It's solved a hell of a lot on my side of town."

"Well, if you're insisting on not going to the hospital, I am most certainly not taking you to your side of town." Will stopped at a light and took the opportunity to look at Puck, who was resolutely avoiding his gaze. "I saw the scars, Puck. I'm not a complete idiot."

"It's nothing. I'm out of there when I turn eighteen. I can handle it."

"I'm sure you can. But not while you're like this." The light changed, and Schue turned back around. "I'll take you back to my place. I've got it to myself for the weekend."

"I'm pretty sure teachers can't have students crashing at their houses." Puck said, but his voice was quieter now. He hurt _everywhere_, and suddenly it was like he couldn't keep his eyes open.

"I won't tell if you won't." Schue said, looking over at the teen. It didn't matter. Puck was already asleep.

.***.

"French toast?" Puck said incredulously, lingering in the doorway of the kitchen. "You can cook French toast?"

"I can only make breakfast foods, so don't be too impressed." Will paused with his spatula out in front of him like a sword. "You okay? I heard you coughing last night."

"Yeah. The ribs are definitely busted, but there was no blood. I think I'm good." Better than he would have been at home. He'd woken up in a nice bed to find that he was still wearing the jeans from last night, but the dried blood had been washed away and he was decently bandaged. There'd also been a towel, a pair of sweatpants, a t-shirt, and a note that said he was welcome to the shower as soon as he woke up. The hot water had helped more than he could have imagined, and the clean clothes made him feel human again. The only problem was he'd had to take off the bandages and look at his ugly body in the mirror. Man, he was just one big scar. "I just…I can't put the bandages back on. I can't really bend that way." He held the t-shirt in his hand, and felt embarrassed by the scars on his back as he stood in the well-lit, clean kitchen.

"No problem." Will flipped the rest of the French toast onto a plate and stuck it in the microwave to keep warm before going over to Puck.

Puck shuffled around so his whole bloody back was exposed, trying to get the words out. "Thanks for last night, Mr. Schuester. For picking me up, and not taking me to the hospital, and letting me crash here. It was really…thanks."

"I hate seeing you kids like this." Schue said, staring at the minefield that was Puck's back. "I wish I could do more." He passed a hand over old scars, some that looked like belt marks. "Is everything okay at home, Puck?"

"You're being really chill, Schue. Don't ruin it."

"I'm a teacher too. I have to file a report if I suspect one of my students is being abused."

"I'm too old for foster care. I'll run away first." Puck felt Schue touch _that_ scar, the long one from a knife he'd gotten Freshman year, before Glee, before everything. That was the last time he'd contemplated running away. He thought he would die that night. "Just leave it."

"Puck…you don't have to live like this."

"I don't. My mom's boyfriend gets in a few good swings now and then, but I crash at Finn's a lot. Kurt's dad is cool. And I sleep in my car some nights." Puck shrugged. "I'll make it until I'm eighteen."

Will didn't know how to handle this. He knew the protocol, but something told him that exposing this would do more harm than good. Still, he couldn't in good conscience leave Puck in this living situation.

"If things get bad, you can stay here." He said, handing out the offering as if it was no big deal, as if he didn't care if the teen took it or left it.

"You taking in all the strays, Schue? You can't save everyone."

And Will again remembered his father, and the story of the Good Samaritan. No, he couldn't save every abused kid. But he could save one person. His life will have been worth living if he could keep Noah Puckerman safe until the end of the year.

.***.

**so we haven't had anyone tell us they hate it yet, which we take as a good sign. again, we say that if you want something truly terrible to happen to a glee character, drop us a line and we'll try to write the story for you. honestly, we're taking out our frustrations on these poor guys. they're tough. they can take it.**


	3. Shot

**Warnings: None**

**Summary: It wasn't like Finn could just stand by and watch the bank robbers kill Kurt right in front of him...**

**.***.**

_"It's my life and it's now or never. I ain't gonna live forever! I just gotta live while I'm alive." **It's My Life, Vitamin D**_

.***.

"I'm coming in with you."

Kurt rolled his eyes, "Seriously Finn? I'm pretty sure dropping off a check is a one-man operation. And if you stay in the truck we can just take off and -"

"And you're meeting Blaine in ten minutes for a marathon of Project Runway. I know." Finn muttered, slamming the door as he got out of the car, "You guys are joined at the hip lately."

"Jealous? Trouble in paradise?"

"What? Rachel? No, man. I just don't feel the need to spend every afternoon with her." More like Rachel took so many voice and dance and acting lessons in between Glee and school that Finn could barely get in a Friday night date and a little groping.

"Dropping off a check is still only a one-man operation." Kurt huffed, pushing back his bangs with the flick of a finger and looking supremely annoyed.

"Hey, my old baby sitter works here now. I like to drop in on Stacy whenever I get the chance. She's the one who taught me how to throw a football."

"Really?" Kurt was filling out the form as fast he could. Maybe Finn didn't want to spend every second with Rachel, but sometimes when he went hours or days without seeing Blaine it felt like his heart hurt, felt like he was going to burst from the inside.

"Yeah really. Who was going to teach me? My dad?" Finn found Stacy amongst the other bank tellers and smiled at her. She, a twenty-eight year old, squealed at the sight of him.

Kurt leaned against the wall, check already deposited, as the two caught up. He sighed, looked at his watch. If he hadn't been so impatient, maybe he would have noticed the men in masks and guns come in before they blew out the cameras.

.***.

Finn couldn't believe that Stacy had two babies. He remembered her as a fifteen-year-old with too many brothers. It had been Stacy who had instilled in him a love of football, Stacy who had introduced four-year-old Finn to a Nerf ball, then a regulation-sized one. Stacy had shown him how to throw a spiral.

And he remembered Stacy's series of boyfriends, her prom, her decision to go to community college. He'd kept in touch, had been at her wedding. But he hadn't gotten to see either of the babies, twin boy and girl, since they were born.

"Wow," He muttered, staring at the picture, "It's so weird to think you're a mother."

"Really?" Stacy smiled, touched his hand. "I like to think I had a little part in mothering you."

"Look, Stace. Football's never going to make me rich and famous. But if it did, I would owe you, like, ten percent of what I made. You taught me how to throw a spiral. Remember?"

"Of course I remember. I've been meaning to go to one of your games. Think you'll make it to States this year?" She smiled at him, all big green eyes and freckles, and despite two babies and five years of marriage, she looked fifteen again, taking little Finn by the hand and laughing with him.

Then those green eyes went wide, and if life was a movie Finn would have seen the men with guns reflected in the orbs. Stacy ducked beneath the counter a second before a bullet would have hit her square between the eyes. She pressed the button that alerted the police. By the time they showed up, the robbers would already be gone. They were only in the bank for about a minute and a half. Amazing the destruction you can leave behind you in a minute and a half.

Finn turned just in time to see Kurt grabbed by the tallest masked man. Just in time to see a gun pressed to the side of his step-brother's head. "Hey!" He started forward, because he wasn't going to stand there to see Kurt's brains blow out. He stopped when another gun was pointed at him.

The third man looked over at the counter, at Stacy, who was poking her head up again. "If we don't have a million dollars in cash, this boy -" a thumb jerked at Kurt, who looked like he was try very hard not to cry, "will die. You have one minute."

"We can't even open the safe in one minute!" Another teller, not Stacy, exclaimed. Stacy was just racing towards the back.

"Fifty-five seconds."

"Kurt…" Finn locked eyes with Kurt and saw just how fucking scared the other boy was. He couldn't just stand here. He thought of Burt the year before. _Where have you been, Finn? _That was when Karofsky had threatened to kill Kurt. He couldn't do that again. He couldn't face Burt if he just stood by and watched Kurt die. He wouldn't be able to face himself.

"Take me instead!" Finn urged. There were other people there, in the bank. A guy in his twenties wearing jeans and flannel. A mother and her young daughter. A business man in a suit. But they were all cringing away from the other guns, which were being waved by the other two guys in masks. They stared at Finn. The guy in the jeans even reached up to grab his hand. "Don't be stupid kid."

The guy who'd pointed a gun at Stacy turned to Finn. "Thirty seconds."

"Please…" Finn clenched his fists, heart hammering in his ears. He heard scuffling behind him, prayed it was Stacy with money. What was a million dollars compared to Kurt's life? He would pay a hundred million to avoid seeing Kurt's brains and guts and life spread across his too-clean floor.

"Finn, shut up." Kurt pleaded. The guy who was holding a gun to his head hit him with it, and suddenly Kurt was on the floor and moaning in pain and there was blood and Finn didn't know what he was doing, he slid across the floor and put his arms around Kurt, holding him. Stacy was shouting something, someone else was shouting something, but Finn didn't hear. He couldn't focus on anything but the blood that had caught to his hand, that stuck to Kurt's hair.

So he didn't know that time was up. He didn't even have time to look up before the bullet pierced his skin.

His last thought was, _my God, I hope they don't shoot Kurt_.

.***.

"Finn? You waking up? Of course you are. Of course you chose to wake up in the half hour that your mom and Burt are gone. This is what my life is."

It felt like his whole body was on fire, but mostly his side. Like if someone poured molten lava on you, but concentrated it on one area. Your whole body would still feel hot, like it was melting, like you wanted to crawl out of your skin to get away from the hurt. Finn moaned.

"Water?" he croaked. He couldn't even open his eyes. Couldn't, wouldn't. But he was so thirsty.

Suddenly there was something pressing against his lips. A straw. Finn sucked gratefully, managed to open one eye. A hospital room. Of course he was in the hospital. Had he really been shot?

"Welcome back, man." Blaine said, setting the cup back down. "You're one of those people who like to make every day an adventure, huh?"

"No. I hate adventures." Finn found that talking hurt so he shut up after that and closed his eyes again. Maybe when he opened them his mom would be there, not the guy who was determined to steal all his solos. Why Blaine of all people?

"Your mom and Burt took Kurt home. I would have gone with them, of course, but Burt needed to drive and your mom wanted to stay with Kurt, who's totally and completely fine, by the way, and I wanted…I wanted to be here when you woke up." Blaine rubbed the back of his neck, not that Finn could see that. "I know you'd rather your family or Rachel or…anybody. But Kurt told me what you did, and I needed to say thank you."

"Nbd." Finn forced out, motioning for more water.

"No big deal? Finn, you took a bullet for Kurt. My boyfriend."

"My step-brother."

"Yeah. That's kind of a big deal." Blaine leaned back, happy that Finn's eyes were open. After the surgery to remove the bullet, the doctors had said that Finn would probably drift in and out of consciousness for the next twelve hours. He was happy to talk to him first. "I was so scared when I heard about the bank. When we heard you were inside. And then the hospital called…I thought Kurt had died."

"You care about him?" Finn asked, genuinely interested. After all Kurt, had had a crush on him before their parents had even started going out. After all, wasn't he supposed to be playing older brother now? Kick the crap out of people who were in relationships with his brother for the wrong reasons? After all, talking about this was easier that concentrating on the pain that threatened to eat him from the inside.

"I love him more than anything." Blaine said, so sure and confident that Finn envied him. "I'll follow Kurt anywhere. When I heard it was you who was hurt worse…"

"Must've been relieved." Finn murmured. It was so hard to keep awake. Like fighting against Nyquil or Benadryl. Knowing you should just succumb but fighting anyway.

"Relieved?" Blaine tilted his head, thinking. "About Kurt, of course. But then I had someone else to worry about." He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes not quite meeting Finn's. "I hope you don't mind, but we haven't told the rest of the glee club yet, and they won't know. The media can't release your names because you're minors. I just…you must be so tired. I didn't think you needed them in here."

"Thanks for that." Finn's eyes slipped. He _was_ so tired…

"You're a hero, man." Blaine grabbed one of Finn's hands and just held it, a necessary connection between two people. "And I'm so grateful for what you did for Kurt."

Finn was tempted to say _nbd_ again, because he couldn't work up the energy for much more than an acronym, but Blaine looked so sincere that he couldn't bring himself to blow him off. "You should be with Kurt."

"I'll stay here until you're asleep again. You shouldn't have to be alone."

Which is why Finn Hudson sank back into unconsciousness, one hand wrapped tight in the hand of Blaine Anderson.

.***.

Burt had fallen asleep in front of the football game, or else he probably wouldn't have heard Finn's scream first.

It had been a tight fit, but after some rearranging he'd managed to fix Finn up in a small room off the kitchen. There were some things that were too much to ask of even the most enlightened of people, and a teenage boy sharing a room with a gay teenage boy was one of them. Since the bank Burt had suggested once or twice that perhaps Finn wouldn't mind being in Kurt's room, for company's sake, but Finn was a big man of eighteen and refused outright. "I'll be fine," he'd said, smiling quickly. He still had bandages around his torso. The color had not completely returned to his cheeks. Fine. Right.

Now Burt found himself at the door of a boy who wasn't his son but had saved his son and so made him better than any blood. "Finn?" He said into the darkness. There was a snuffling sound, like a mewling kitten, like a pining dog. Not quite human. Too sad to possibly be human. He turned on the light.

Finn's feet were on the floor and he was doubled over, chin to knees, arms around his body to hold in the emotion. His head snapped up at the light and a look of such embarrassment ran across his face that Burt felt his heart melt. What a rotten age! Too old to feel he could rely on adults, too young to be able to deal with situations.

Although, when he thought about it, Burt was sure that no one would ever be old enough to deal with the things Finn had just had to deal with.

"Sorry for waking you," Finn passed a sleeve over his eyes, and again with that fake smile, a flash and then gone, as if a twitching of the lips could put everything to rights.

"Nightmare?"

"Yeah."

Kurt had been having nightmares. For the first night, Burt had allowed his son any companion he wished and it was Blaine who spent the night holding Kurt where a year ago it would have been Mercedes or his father. Burt would poke his head in and see the two of them, clutching each other desperately on the small bed, lovers who might have been separated by a tiny piece of lead.

But though it had been four days since the bank, two days since Finn left the hospital, Burt couldn't remember any sign of nightmares plaguing the quarterback , though that might have been the drugs that would knock Finn out cold every couple of hours.

He sat on the edge of the bed. "Want to talk about it?"

Finn shrugged, leaning on his elbows now. He wasn't looking at Burt. He was looking at the darkness beyond his bedroom, the place where the light stopped spilling into the hallway. "It's normal stuff, I guess. About getting shot." He let out a short laugh that wasn't a laugh at all but a sob in disguise. "Getting shot in a place I would have died from."

Burt let the silence settle for a moment, because there was more, because getting shot was no walk in the park but Finn hadn't been dreaming about that tonight. A father knows these things. "Sometimes it's other people. Kurt gets shot because I didn't speak up, because I just stood by and watched. Sometimes he's Rachel, or my mom, or Puck." Finn dug fingernails into forehead. "And I can't get them out of my head. And I can't save them."

Sometimes all it takes is a little human contact. Burt put an arm around Finn's shoulders and suddenly a face that was a mask of frustration suddenly melted and the tears came and Burt just held the almost-man and let them come, patted him on the back and let them come, knowing that afterwards Finn's side would hurt like crazy, knowing that afterwards they'd have to talk about things like _therapy_.

"I don't know how to thank you, Finn." Burt murmured, rubbing the teen's back. "I don't know if it's even appropriate. I wouldn't have asked you to do what you did. You're my son, too." The words were suddenly true for the first time. Yes, when it became clear that there would be a wedding he had tried to bond with Finn. Yes, for four people who didn't really know each other all that well, this living situation wasn't half bad. But there was still this line – Finn was Carol's boy, and Kurt was his. Now though…now he suspected that if only one of them had come out of that bank alive. Finn dead, Kurt dead, it would have been devastating either way. Equally devastating.

"Your father…" Finn's father, the hero. Finn's father, who neither person in the room had met, not really. Finn's father was suddenly in that room with them, taking up the small space in a way that wasn't suffocating but comforting. "I think it's something your father would have done. And he would have been so proud."

Finn finally looked up, breathing hard, blinking hard, staring straight at Burt.

"I'm proud of you too, Finn. I'm damn proud of you."

.***.

**finn has been in all of these chapters. he's just...he's so _writeable_. everything he does is genuine, and if he messes up it's genuine. and he's always trying to do the right thing. that's all you can ask sometimes. btw: remember, if you want to see your favorite character maimed/banged up/bruised, just drop us a line. we'll try to make it happen.**


	4. Fire

**Warnings: None**

**Summary: Mike let the jocks throw Artie down the stairs, but at least he goes down to get him out of the basement. It was just bad timing that the school caught on fire right _then_.**

**.***.**

_"Lean on me when you're not strong and I'll be your friend. I'll help you carry on." **Lean On Me, Ballads**_

.***.

Some days were better than others when it came to getting around the jerks at school, that was for sure.

Artie never looked for special treatment, it just wasn't his MO, but he did smile when Santana held open the door for him. She continued to chatter with Brittney and then let the door slam in the rest of the class's face. Sometimes it's nice to have friends.

He took off down the hallway, stopping often to wait as this group or that group walked in front of him. He sighed, stopped dead in the middle of the hallway with his hands on his knees, staring at the chaos in front of him and kind of missing the year before, when Puck had taken him on as his "community service." Puck had a way of clearing space in the hallways.

Hands grabbed the handles of his chair and Artie looked up, already smiling. Weird coincidence, thinking of Puck and actually getting him. Sometimes the Glee club would do this – help him through the hallways and talk about Glee or football and at the end he didn't feel like a charity case but like someone other people cared about.

Except it wasn't Puck. It was a hockey player, a clean-cut cocky brand new Senior who wanted to show off to his new varsity teammates by bullying the cripple. Classy. "Clear off, Harvey. I'm already late for lunch."

Ben Harvey raised an eyebrow. "I don't think you really have much say in that. Not like you can get up and walk away."

This raised some snickers from Harvey's cronies, but the vast majority of the hallway was oblivious to what was going on. They were always so oblivious…scurrying past, talking and laughing in groups of two or three, moving around the distraction in the middle of the hallway like water moves around stone. As if Artie and the others weren't even there.

Harvey was steering him down the hallway, and to anyone else this might have looked like when Puck or Finn or Mike would grab onto him and get him to his next class, but Artie knew what came next and wasn't so much dreading it as he was resigned. It had become a sort of tradition among the sports teams to grab one of the cripples and push them down the basement steps.

_It could be worse,_ Artie told himself, _Harvey could have gotten Mariah. _Mariah, the sweet sophomore with spina bifida, had been seriously hurt the year before when a baseball player had dropped her down the stairs. She hadn't been found for three hours and she'd needed surgery to fix the damage to her already damaged spine. Hopefully his fall wouldn't be like that.

Still, it wasn't like he was going to take this sitting down (no pun intended.) "You don't have to do this, Harvey. Do you really want to perpetuate the stereotype of a dumb, bullying jock?"

"It's not for that, crip. It's because it's fun." They were nearing the basement, the door halfway down a back corridor that wasn't frequented by people who really gave a damn. No turning back now. The only people around were the jocks, guffawing to encourage the violence.

And then Artie saw him out of the corner of his eye. Mike Chang, walking around the corner with books tucked under one arm, head turned and tilted to stare at the scene. They locked eyes, and both knew, in that instant, what was going to happen.

Artie would take a tumble down the stairs and pray to God that he didn't get hurt that badly.

Mike would keep walking and pretend nothing had happened, because even a super Asian couldn't realistically take on six huge hockey players and he'd just end up in the basement next to Artie, which would be no help at all. Better to keep moving, then come back later and help pick up the pieces, because grand gestures were nice and all but practicality was far more important.

That's what Artie thought anyway when he went down the stairs head first, chair flying out from under him. He fell through the darkness, giving thanks once again that it was him and not sweet Mariah, that Mike Chang had seen him, that he would be found. Eventually.

.***.

Across the school, a chemistry experiment went wrong. Every year, Mr. Rose had filled up a balloon with helium and set it on fire, and it would cause a spectacle and the students would applaud and that's how he kept his rep as the coolest science teacher. This year the ceiling caught fire.

Noah Puckerman, who seemed to have been looking forward to it his entire high school career, sprang out of his seat and pulled the fire alarm. Mr. Rose made sure all the students were out of the room before he left himself, moving as fast as he could without actually running. The fire was spreading. He would have tried to stop it, of course, but someone needed to watch these kids. And the fire was so big…over the ceiling, out in the hall, climbing up and down the walls. The gas was propelling it forward…

It would not have been that big a deal. The students got out of the school in a somewhat orderly fashion. Most didn't even know it was a real fire. They had so many drills, why not just assume it was one of those? And then they saw the flames shoot out of the building. Someone made a joke about wishing they had s'mores fixings.

The teachers took roll and counted heads, but some people had been between classes. They relied mostly on accounts from the students, encouraging them to text for once.

Tina happened to be in Mr. Schuester's Spanish class. "Mike won't answer his phone, Mr. Schuester. He always has it on him."

"Maybe he lost it in the fire drill, Tina," Schue was trying to take roll, and had lost his place between Myers and Newton.

"Artie won't respond either." Finn said, scrolling through all the texts he'd just received and looking through them again to make sure. "And…wait a second…yeah. Santana and Brittney had class with him ten minutes ago. But they were off to lunch. He's not with them."

"I'm sure they'll be okay." Schue said. He put Kurt in charge of making sure Tina didn't have an emotional breakdown and went back to his other twenty-six students. Still, every thirty seconds he'd look over at Finn, who would shake his head. Still no answer.

So when Sue came around asking if anyone knew of anyone missing, Schue put in the names of two glee club members. The only two people to really be lost in the fire.

.***.

After Artie went down the stairs Mike lost it. He knew he couldn't win – he was strong, and had taken the four obligatory years of karate when he was younger and had been a pretty decent contender. But he wasn't three hundred pounds, and couldn't take on guys that were three hundred pounds.

Still, he balled his hands into fists, dropped his books, got in Harvey's face. The kid was laughing. "You're seriously off the deep end, Harvey. Tossing a cripple down the stairs? What are you going to do next, beat up an old lady?"

Well, Mike got beat up after that, and thrown down the same basement stairs. He deserved it, though. He'd known what they were going to do. Why hadn't he stopped Harvey and Co. before they'd gotten to Artie?

"Mike?"

"Yeah, man." Mike scurried to his feet. Okay, he winced his way to his feet, because even with his pretty awesome reflexes he couldn't avoid a couple of bumps and bruises on the way down thirty stairs. "You okay?" He blinked in the semi-darkness, the room becoming more and more clear each second. There were bells ringing. Huh. He thought that only happened in movies when people hit their heads.

"Can't really move."

Mike knelt next to the Artie-shaped shadow on the floor and didn't know what to do. He'd seen enough TV to know that touching people who might have bad injuries was a no-no. But he needed to get them both back up the stairs… "Anything feel broken?"

"Well," Artie deadpanned, "I can't feel my legs."

Mike did laugh at that, then put a hand to his forehead because _damn_ laughing made his head hurt like the dickens. "Look man, we gotta get back up the stairs before I can check you out. I'm going to have to carry you."

"Okay." Something throbbed in Artie's arm, or maybe it was his shoulder, or his chest. It all felt very detached, things that weren't actually a part of his body. And he was so tired…he felt warm, too warm, like sitting outside on a summer's day and not even being able to stop the urge to fall asleep. His ears were ringing, too, and it muted when he passed from the blackness of the basement into the blackness of unconsciousness.

"Artie!" A hard shake, and Artie wasn't against the hard cement ground anymore but was being held awkwardly in Mike Chang's arms. "Don't fall asleep, man. This is creepy enough with two of us. Talk to me. What are you thinking about right now?"

"This reminds me of the accident."

"You mean that car accident when you got paralyzed?" Mike hobbled up one step, nearly slipped, nearly dropped Artie. His knee throbbed, and he knew that there would be a whacking great bruise on it. "Not exactly a happy thought."

"Not really. They had to cut me out of the wreck. It took hours. And I felt numb, like this. I couldn't feel my legs."

"Damn Harvey." Two steps, three, and Mike was panting, wobbling. How was he supposed to make it up the rest of the flight? If only the ringing in his ears would stop… "Why would he do this?"

"Easy target? I dunno. I haven't been pushed down a flight of stairs since Freshman year, though. Last year Puck was scary enough to drive people away." Artie realized it was getting difficult to breathe and stopped talking. He coughed. If the basement had had more light the boys would have been able to see the blood he spat out. Artie wasn't bleeding internally, though. He'd just knocked a couple of teeth loose. "Come to think of it, it was Puck who pushed me down the stairs Freshman year."

"That sucks man." Mike's lips twitched. "I was about to say that you have to stand up for yourself."

"Very funny."

"I thought so." They were near the top now. "How is the ringing getting louder?"

"You hear that, too?" Artie asked in surprise. Then they both squinted through the semi-darkness up at the door.

They realized it at the same time, "A fire alarm?"

"Sounds like." What an awful time for a fire drill. Artie needed to be checked out at a hospital, and Mike could have done without going back down the stairs for a wheelchair. If there'd been people in the hallway, he would have begged a favor off of one of them.

It was only when they got near enough to the door that they could hear the round. There's a reason it's called a "roaring" fire. Mike didn't have to lean against the door to know it was hot outside. "Oh my God. The school is actually on fire!"

What could he do, though? There was no way a wooden door would hold up to the flames, and Mike didn't exactly relish the thought of being trapped as well as burned alive. He leaned against the mercifully not-quite-closed door and opened it enough to realize that the floor wasn't on fire, not yet.

Artie looked even worse in the flickering light of the fire. Cuts, bruises, and there was blood dripping from his lip, another cut open his eye. One arm was broken, but he didn't feel that yet. Didn't feel the broken rib yet, either. Of course, Mike had to notice all this in a split second. He was already heading back down the stairs.

"Where are you going?" Artie asked, terrified. He couldn't _move_. There was fire raging all around him, over him, down the walls, down the halls, and he was lucky to be on ground that wasn't covered by flames. And Mike was _leaving _him.

"I can't carry you." Mike said, panting. They didn't have time for this… "I need the wheelchair. I'll be quick, I promise."

Artie couldn't even argue, because Mike had already plunged through the flames into the basement. He just hoped Mike would get back up before the flames that were licking at the tiled floor had time to get to him…

"Artie!" Mike shouted when he'd made his way up the stairs with the wheelchair (fire did a lot to helping out the adrenal glands – he couldn't feel his own injuries. He just wanted to live…) "Artie!"

There was a lot of smoke now, and Mike started coughing almost immediately. He put down the chair, opened it, looked for the guy who belonged in it. "Artie!" He yelled again, blinking furiously. The fire was so bright, the smoke getting so thick, that it was hard to see even a short distance in front of him.

And Artie, somewhere in that minute, two, that it had taken Mike to get up and down the basement stairs, had swallowed so much smoke that he was on his stomach, coughing, turning red, inhaling and not being able to get past that damn broken rib, coughing more. He heard Mike calling to him and reached up a hand that was immediately burned by nearby flames. He didn't care anymore. He was so disconnected from his body that he could have been burned everywhere and not felt a thing.

A strong hand grabbed his and Artie was hauled up, his useless legs just dead weight as Mike pulled him onto the chair. Halfway through he dropped Artie back onto the ground, and Artie couldn't help it, this time he screamed. He'd landed on a piece of burning ceiling, and now his back was on _fire_.

"Sorry!" Mike said, pulling on the arm with all his might, and Artie's arm slipped out of the socket but he was too dazed to care about that.

"Mike, your hair!" He tried to shout, really did, but the smoke was in his throat, in his lungs, and what should have been a yell was a small whisper. Still, Mike got the message and patted the back of his neck, yelling when he felt the fire.

"Quickest way out?" Mike yelled to Artie. He felt so disoriented –he couldn't see, and his head was throbbing from the fall or maybe all the smoke and he just wanted to lay down, because he was too hot, because moving was too hard, but Artie was screaming, then coughing, and they really to get out now or else he didn't know what would happen, but Artie had been coughing up _blood_ and that was never good, right?

"There's a door right around here. Maybe a hundred feet? End of the corridor. That way." Artie pointed, slumped over in the chair, he couldn't even try to help Mike to move it, could only cradle his arm and cough. He felt like he was drowning on air…

Mike started moving, cringing at one noise or another. And then he hit a wall of fire. "Artie…"

"Run for it, man."

"It could be thick. We could get stuck in the fire." Mike's greatest fear was burning to death, although at this rate it looked like he would suffocate first. It was so hard to breathe…

"You have to. The door's right on the other side."

And so Mike ran for it.

.***.

"I can't believe Artie and Mike are the only ones missing."

"Keep your voice down, Blaine. If Tina hears you say Mike's name she's going to start crying again."

"They've been gone for a really long time."

"Five minutes."

"You can totally burn to death in five minutes, Kurt."

"Blaine! Optimism!"

Blaine stared at the burning school, stared at it. So he was the first one to see the door open, the first one to see Mike and Artie stagger out of the school, the first to see them collapse.

But everyone saw the spurt of flames come out the door, like an explosion fabricated for television, engulfing the two boys who'd just fought so hard for their lives in hellfire.

.***.

"Thank you, Mike."

"Jesus, Artie. You're the one that nearly died." It was late, and Mike and Artie were still in the hospital after the television cameras and their parents and the Glee club left. Smoke inhalation, concussions, and burns were reasons enough for an overnight stay.

Artie had borne the brunt of the injuries, though – Mike could at least sit up in his bed, and was flipping idly through the channels for something decent to watch, even though the pounding headache made him want to sleep. Artie had broken a rib, his wrist, dislocated his shoulder, had burns over 16% of his body to Mike's 7%. He'd also lost a couple of teeth, which had made Mike smile in relief. He'd thought Artie was going to die on him…

"And you're the one who saved me," Artie murmured sleepily. "Really. Thank you."

"No prob." Mike muttered, settling on a showing of _Back to the Future_ and leaning back against the thin pillows.

"You took on the jocks," Artie continued. "Not everyone would have done that."

Right. "Remind me to tell Puck about Harvey. He's better at the whole intimidating thing than I am."

"You mean he's better at punching people."

"Harvey deserves it. You shouldn't throw people down staircases. Especially if they can't walk back up them themselves."

Artie let out a weak laugh, then coughed. God, he was already sick of coughing. "You're, like, Asian Superman."

Mike smiled at that, and was about to say something about wanting to be a firefighter instead when he realized Artie had already fallen asleep.

He watched the television without really seeing the pictures, and realized he wasn't nearly as upset about being caught in a fire, about the school burning down, as he was at the fact that anyone could be so awful as to push a cripple down the stairs.

.***.

**somebody asked us for some artie bashing, and mike somehow wormed his way in here, too. okay, so schools probably wouldn't go up like a house of straw, but this is what would happen if the worst happened. willing suspension of disbelief...**


	5. Holocaust

**Warnings: Non-graphic mentions of the Holocaust and related events**

****A/N: We're trying to treat this horrible event with some decency. But, for obvious reasons, these names are not going to be German names. Just go with the fact that these guys grew up in Germany, 'kay? ****

**Summary: What if you threw the Glee characters into WWII-era Germany? What would happen to Rachel and Puck? To Kurt and Blaine?**

**.***.**

_"But how can you teach the Holocaust? How can the boys scribble down an answer however well put that doesn't demean the suffering involved? And putting it well demeans it as much as putting it badly." **The History Boys**_

.***.

"Jesus, Puck. You can't be out here." Finn sat next to the Jewish boy his family had taken in so long ago. He and Puck had grown up together, and it had been the most rational thing in the world to hide Puck in their home when Germany started calling for deportation of all Jews. Puck's mother had left the country nearly a year before, gone from Germany to…somewhere. They hadn't heard from her in six months.

"I know," Puck looked up, his dark eyes troubled. So strange, how people used to mistake Finn and Puck for brothers – both with dark hair, and when their skin tanned in the summer they would strip off their shirts and run through the fire hydrants. Things like going to church or synagogue hadn't mattered so much back then. "I just wanted to see the sun rise."

"Have you heard from Rachel?" Puck asked when Finn went to sit next to him on the window ledge. Finn pulled a battered note out of his pocket and handed it to him, staring hard at the sun just visible over the grimy buildings.

Puck's eyes went wide as he read the note. "What? No! They can't do this!"

"They're liquefying most of the ghettos, Puck. She knows she's next. She just managed to give this to one of the kinder _Goy. _She passed it through the ghetto walls."

"Have you heard what happens in the camps?" Puck asked, aghast. But of course Finn knew. Finn used to have a crush on Rachel, on the way the girl could sing better than anyone else, Jew or Christian. She always spoke her mind, always had a stubborn streak of spirit that even being moved to the ghetto couldn't break. She'd smuggled letters to Finn for the past two years, always upbeat letters that described starvation and sickness with a touch of humor.

Puck drew his arms around himself. He would be grateful to Finn's family to his dying day for risking their own lives by hiding him, but sometimes when he read about his old friends, his old schoolmates, being sent to certain death...terrible deaths. Indecent, inhumane, undignified deaths…well, sometimes he wondered why he was even trying to cling to this desperate existence. His mother was gone, his father long gone. No siblings, now no friends in the world except for the family that had kept him hidden for years.

"You should go inside." Finn murmured. There were sounds of movement from down below. The city was awakening. Soon there would be soldiers on the streets (and how did Puck feel about soldiers exactly? He didn't know. Finn's father had been a Nazi in the early days of the regime, had died nearly a decade before when he spoke up in defense of the Jews. He knew decent people who became Nazi's because it was impossible to say no to the Fuhrer. He also knew cruel people who used their position as an excuse to pick on the weak and the friendless.) Soon…

"What will happen after the war?" Puck wondered. This was 1943. The war seemed like it would drag on until the end of time.

"We'll do what we've always been doing," Finn said. He'd avoided war thus far because of his age, but he would be seventeen in a month and the army was always needing new soldiers. "We survive."

.***.

Kurt smiled when Blaine walked into the shop, then got the nervous flutters he always felt when Blaine was surrounded by too many men in Nazi uniforms. His father's auto shop was now frequented by the army more than than by anyone else.

"Herr Hummel," Blaine said respectfully, putting the package on the counter in front of Kurt. "I believe your father ordered these books."

He'd done no such thing. Blaine brought Kurt books on an almost daily basis – he worked in one of the few remaining libraries in town. It was strictly under the State's control, of course, and books were banned in great numbers, but a book was a book and Kurt would read them hungrily. "Thank you, Herr Anderson. If you go to the back room you can get some cheese for your return journey. I know it is a long walk."

Kurt made an excuse to his father a minute later and rushed in the back to find Blaine sitting on the stairs. The two ran up them to the second floor where Kurt and his family lived. Up to the attic, where they could never be found.

"Puck," Kurt said, opening the door to the narrow room the Jew lived in. "Another book for you."

"Great." Puck said, "You can't get a soccer ball in here by any chance?" Puck had always been more into sport than learning, but he found that books could keep the insanity and boredom at bay.

"Sorry," Blaine said, locking the attic door behind him. "When the war is over…"

"Yeah, when the war is over everything's going to be right as rain. That's the biggest lie ever told."

"_Dulce et decorum…" _Blaine began, then stopped. What was the point anyway? All three in the room knew they could die at any moment. They were aberrations, after all. Less than human.

With that thought he turned to Kurt and kissed him. Puck made a noise in the back of his throat and threw himself onto the bed, very obviously putting up his book to hide the two young men from view. He may be a Jew, but at least he liked girls. Not that he had even so much as talked to a girl other than Finn's mother for two years…

Kurt and Blaine wrapped their arms around each other, shielding themselves from a world that demanded too much of people who just wanted to love who they loved.

.***.

Rachel stared at the dead baby. She'd held it in her arms for over a day, ignoring her aching muscles, her own hunger and fatigue, because she had to show this tiny baby that life was good. That it was worth living. Well, she'd failed at that, hadn't she? Sometime during the night, when Rachel had fallen to sleep on her feet, the baby had died of…something. It had been hungry, and Rachel had no milk. None of the women in the car did. And it was unbearably hot…

She prayed that the baby would find a more peaceful world than the one he'd been born into. She prayed that the train would stop soon. She prayed that her friends were safe, that the war would end, that people would stop hating.

She prayed because she was scared. She prayed because she sensed, as they all sensed as soon as they heard their ghetto in Warsaw was being liquidated, that the end was near.

.***.

"Herr Hummel…"

"Not another word, Puck."

"But Herr Hummel…"

"I won't hear of it! Turning you out in the streets. There's enough of the old guard around to remember you going to synagogue not three years ago. People are happy to turn in Jews."

"Herr Hummel, your family…what if your wife was arrested? Or your sons? I can't endanger them!"

"And I can't send a young man to die! You have always been as a son to me, Noah. I don't understand the Fuhrer and his hate, I think because I have known too many good Jews. Why should one man say that an entire race deserves to be slaughtered? Doesn't the Bible tell us to love our neighbor? No, Puck. You will stay, and if I die it will be because I stuck by my convictions, and that is an honorable death. What more can we hope for at this point than to die with dignity?"

"Herr Hummel…?" Puck shifted his weight, awkward in the presence of this big man. This big man with tears rolling down his cheeks.

"My sons has been called to fight in Hitler's army. What can we do? If they refuses they will be shot. If they go, they will die in battle, or come home broken men from the horrors of an unjust war."

"Herr Hummel…"

"Kurt and Finn both in one letter. You are the only son I have left."

.***.

Blaine didn't kiss Kurt that night. What could he do? Kurt and Finn were both sixteen, almost seventeen. And Blaine was just fifteen, and even in war-time a smallish just-fifteen-year-old wasn't taken for the army. "Let me join with you. At least you'll have someone to watch your back."

"I have Finn. I think a step-brother is as close to family as I'm going to need." Which meant something like _if you join up early because of me, if you die, I will never forgive myself. _Kurt held out his hands in a what-can-I-do gesture. "I'll be careful, Blaine. It could be worse."

Blaine didn't latch onto this. Of course it could be worse. They could have been caught in one of their moments of passion. A boy kissing a boy? That made you no better than a Jew, and not just in the eyes of the Fuhrer. Blaine sometimes woke up shaking, shivering uncontrollably at the thought of his father walking in on one of their romances. He could imagine his father - a tall, proud man who was behind the state and the Fuhrer all the way – turning his son into the authorities for the good of Germany.

And he'd heard about the camps: whispers that they weren't just holding cells for Jews, and since no one had ever seen someone who'd been sent to a camp again, he was inclined to believe the rumors about hangings, about medical experiments and beatings and people being shot all in a row, about smoke that filled the sky with the ashes of what had once been people.

Of course it could be worse. But couldn't it also be better? Blaine had often shared with Kurt a dream he had, of someplace where they could love each other and live together and be no different from a man and a woman doing the same. A place where they could kiss in public and not be murdered for it. _Sounds nice, _Kurt would say, pulling him in for another kiss, but Blaine could tell that his friend didn't think these were anything but fantasies.

They were, of course. The world would always deplore people like him, like Kurt. But he could dream.

.***.

A year passed.

Rachel, who had been sent to Auschwitz, worked with two dozen other women in a kitchen. They were beaten severely if the guards even suspected them of stealing food. She was constantly hungry, and sometimes couldn't even look at her hands as she chopped the food or stirred the pot. Fingers so thin! Skin so grey! But at least she was alive. Alive for now, and there were rumors, snatches of whispers, and the guards were sometimes so nervous…the war was ending. And Germany was not winning it.

Kurt died on the battlefield (at least that's what the report said, but could he help it if the other men suspected something about his high voice, his childish appearence? Could he help the way he sounded, the way he looked, the way how sometimes men could sense these things the way a shark senses blood? And so he didn't die in battle after all. But his death was bloody. And it was painful. And he thought of Blaine.)

When Blaine heard about this he went straight to the Hummel house, went up to the attic and sat on the Jew's bed and cried, and Puck stared at him with pity before getting up and patting the younger boy on the back. Puck, a Jew, Puck, whose life had been deemed worthless by the state, was the only person in the world to know what Kurt and Blaine had actually been to each other.

Finn didn't die. Finn was part of a raid that arrested three Christians who were hiding a family of Jews in their attic. After putting the handcuffs on a Christian woman, another pair on a young Jewish boy, he excused himself and was sick in the bushes. The woman could have been his mother. The Jew could have been his best friend.

But what could he do? What could any of them do?

.***.

Auschwitz was liberated in January 1945. Rachel, who had been dying of infection ever since that cold day when she sliced her hand open with a rusty knife, had been left behind when the guards evacuated the camp days before. So she was there when the soldiers came in, with grim smiles, with bags of food, with candy, with tales of peace.

Rachel couldn't help herself. She cried in the arms of a Russian soldier who'd offered her the first whole loaf of bread she'd seen since the war began. He held her, rubbed her thin back, and promised her a better life existed outside of the high fences of the camp.

.***.

"What will you do now?"

"Go to America, I suppose." Puck sat on the same windowsill Finn had found him that morning years before. Finn had come back from the army, staggering slightly even with the cane. A bullet had found his leg a month before the end of the war. Finn figured it was what he deserved. "Look for a better life."

"You don't know anyone in America." Finn pointed out wearily. "Anything could happen to you."

"At least something can happen to me." The end of the war meant the collapse of the German state. It meant famine throughout Europe. It meant that Puck could no longer be killed because of something in his blood. "At least I can live a life."

There were so many words he wanted to say, so many thanks he wanted to give to Finn, to his father, to this family that had sheltered him for five years at their own expense. Finn had told him, that first night after he came home from the army, about arresting Jews. About putting them in trucks to be taken to concentration camps. Death camps. He sat on Puck's bed and cried tears of frustration. _I kept imagining someone doing that to you. _

And there were so many who no longer had a life to live. The war had devastated the world. Kurt had died. Blaine, the young boy who used to kiss Kurt in this very room, had been killed in the town square not many months before for passing food through to the Jewish ghetto. The numbers were uncomprehendingly high. Hundreds and thousands and millions. Millions dead.

Finn thought of his leg, of the Germany he no longer knew, no longer trusted. And he took out the letters he'd known he'd have to deliver ever since he walked into the room. "This one is from the French government." He said, showing it to Puck. "I don't know much French, but in German I think they're trying to say…Puck, they found your mother. Dead. She's been dead for quite a while."

Puck stared at the words he didn't understand. "I think I always knew that she was dead." Still, he'd had dreams of spotting his mother on the street, of hugging her, of knowing he had a mother. Now he was just an old orphan.

"Who's the other letter from?" Puck asked, already opening it, already scanning its brief contents. It had a foreign stamp, but the handwriting was achingly familiar. It contained a brief note, an address, a request.

"Rachel's alive?" Puck stared at Finn, who nodded, smiling tightly. "Did you see this, Finn! She's in America! She's asking if I would want to live with her. She has a house. A job. Finn!"

"I know. It's perfect." Finn sat with Puck on the windowsill. "We'll go together. Start a new life." What was there here but a broken country whose streets reminded him of the friends he'd lost. A broken house, whose halls reminded him of a step-brother he'd always cared for. Puck was his only true friend left in the world.

"Your father…"

"My father will be happy to know we're in a new country, starting new lives for ourselves." He grinned, "Although he will probably remind me that there are two of us and only one Rachel."

Puck laughed, such a foreign sound that Finn stared at him, then smiled. They looked at the letter again, looked out over the rooftops. From above, you'd never know how ravaged the world had been by this war. Dawn was peaking over the horizon. It was time for a new day.

.***.

**we've had this chapter planned from the beginning (we're not dissing all ya'll requests. they're really good) we just happen to be studying wwii right now and this has been on our minds. yes, there's only five glee characters. we could have kept this story going forever if we'd included them all - hell, we could even do vj day with mike and tina - but we had to keep it a decent length.**

**like it? hate it? got more ideas? drop us a line...**


	6. Sick

**Warnings: None**

****A/N: We're not ignoring the requests. Next up in a Finn/Rachel story about getting hit by cars, because our fans are as blood-thirsty as we are. But this came to us after re-watching last year's Christmas episode.****

**Summary: Blaine didn't know that if he pressed the issue Kurt would walk out. He didn't know that his boyfriend would get pneumonia. He didn't know that, even in the 21st century, pneumonia could kill.**

**.***.**

_"Think of my lifelong sorrow if you got pneumonia and died." **Baby It's Cold Outside**_

Kurt huffed, flipping the page in the magazine harder than necessary and making Blaine, who was honestly trying to read _Henry V_, look over at him. "Okay. What's up?"

"Every time you sing in Glee Finn pushes you around." Kurt said, sitting upright so Blaine could see for the first time that he was mad. "And you never stand up to him."

Blaine shrugged, smiling a little. He didn't know that this was an important conversation. He assumed it was one of those silly things that happened sometimes – an old irk coming back to you hours later, needing only small words to be smoothed over. "I want us to be friends. He's your step-brother."

"He's being a bully," Kurt spat, "And you should stand up for yourself."

Blaine, who'd been sitting at his desk, sighed, stood. "He doesn't want a cocky Junior stealing all of his solos his Senior year. I get it." He sat on the bed and took Kurt's hands. They were cold as ice, as the snow falling thick and fast outside. "I don't mind playing second fiddle. I didn't leave the Warblers to get more solos. I left them for you."

Usually this last line would have prompted at least a kiss (and, because of recent events, probably much more) but Kurt wasn't having it. "You're the one who told me to stand up to bullies."

"Finn isn't Karofsky," Blaine said, a little impatiently, "You know that. He's not a bad person. He's just scared."

"He shouldn't be taking it out on you." Kurt said, taking his hands back. "I don't know why you let him."

Blaine sighed, running a hand through his hair. He knew what Kurt wanted from him, but he couldn't do it. Sure, Finn could be nicer, but he understood the guy like Kurt couldn't seem to. Finn had a good voice, but it would never be enough for him to _make it_. He would end up a small-town guy, probably taking over Kurt's dad's car shop. There was nothing wrong with that life, but Blaine didn't want to be the one to take away what could be his last year of being on top. "I…I just can't, Kurt. I don't want there to be friction between me and Finn. He's a part of your life now, forever. And I want to be too."

He was whipping out all his best lines, hoping it would be enough to calm Kurt down so he could finish his homework and they could sing together and watch a movie and laugh a little somewhere away from his father, who still looked stony and sad whenever Blaine walked into the room. But Kurt had other plans.

"If you're not going to take this seriously then I should just go." Kurt said, slinging his bag over his shoulder and looking pissed in a way that Blaine hadn't seen him since Rachel decided to run against him for class president. "I expected more from you."

"You can't leave," Blaine said, scrambling to his feet, "It's snowing! There's probably already a foot on the ground!" When Kurt still headed for the door, Blaine grabbed his arm, "At least let me drive you."

"I'll walk, thanks."

"Kurt, be reasonable. It's three miles and it's freezing."

"You don't understand!" Kurt said, rounding on him, "Last year you encouraged me to stand up to Karofsky, which succeeded in getting me chased out of McKinley. And now you won't even take your own advice? Did you ever believe what you were saying?"

"Kurt…" Blaine said, exasperated, "Come on, just let me drive you home."

"No!" And Kurt had tears in his eyes, staring at Blaine through lashes that had water clinging to them like dew on grass in the early morning, "You're just a coward, Blaine. You wouldn't stand up to the bullies and your old school and now you won't even do it here." He glared, and Blaine stumbled backwards, stunned by this blow, "I'm disappointed in you."

This time, when Kurt turned to leave, Blaine didn't even try to stop him.

.***.

School wasn't cancelled the next day, because it's Lima, Ohio and a foot of snow would be nothing later in the winter, when three or four feet can be dumped overnight. Blaine picked his way through the crowds, warily approaching Kurt's locker.

"Go away, Blaine," Kurt said, his voice stuffy and odd.

"You got a cold," Blaine said, feeling a sinking pit in his stomach. All the residual anger from what Kurt had said last night was replaced by guilt. If he'd been more forceful about giving his boyfriend a ride, they might have been able to talk everything through and they wouldn't be here right now, Kurt sick and angry, Blaine unable to anything about it. "You should be at home."

"Just leave me alone," Kurt said, then started coughing so violently he would have dropped his books if Blaine hadn't taken them out of his arms at the last minute. He could only watch, helpless, as Kurt doubled over in the hallway, holding his ribs as he coughed. And that cough! Deep and harsh, as if Kurt's lungs were ripping themselves from the inside.

"I'm taking you home," Blaine said, grabbing Kurt under the arm. He had a math test he absolutely couldn't miss, but that wasn't until sixth period. He would be back by then, and at least he could make sure Kurt was comfortable.

Kurt couldn't even protest. He allowed himself to be dragged away, and then sat in Blaine's car, looking so tired and miserable, and then coughing so violently, that Blaine felt his own heart start to break at the sight. "I'm sorry, Kurt," He said, because it felt appropriate. He could be the bigger man here, even if he thought Kurt should apologize for calling him a coward (wasn't he one, though? Wasn't Kurt twice the man he was?) "I'm not going to get in Finn's face, but I am sorry for letting it get to this."

Too tired to really move much, Kurt just shrugged, although the fire in his eyes suggested that if he had the energy he would give Blaine a piece of his mind, would pick up right where they left off. Whatever. Time would heal this rift, and when Kurt was healthy Blaine would tell him why he didn't think he should step on Finn's toes.

It was starting to snow again by the time Blaine pulled up the Hummel house, and he was sure that this time it would be enough to get them out of school until Thanksgiving. The forecast was calling for almost twenty inches on top of what was left from the night before.

Usually Blaine liked the snow, but when Kurt almost fell face-forward on a slippery patch he made a mental note to move to Florida when he grew up. "Where's your key, Kurt?"

The voice that answered him was so muffled Blaine almost couldn't hear the word "pocket."

He let Kurt lean on him as they walked inside, and since he didn't think the other boy would be able to do a staircase he dropped him on the couch in front of the television. And then Blaine did everything he vaguely remembered his mother doing for him when he was young and sick – a cup of tea, a pot of chicken soup, a blanket, the television tuned to all those soap operas, and by the time he was done Kurt was sleeping fitfully, his forehead and cheeks red against skin so pale he looked….he looked dead.

Blaine swallowed at the look of him, then glanced at his watch. No way could he miss this test, not when he was already making it up, but he would come back here right after. Before he left, though, he called the number posted near the phone and waited only two rings before the person he was looking for answered.

"Mr. Hummel? It's Blaine. I took Kurt home because he's sick, but I really have to go back to school for a couple hours. Can you check on him? You can? Thank you. No, really, it was no problem bringing him home. He'll be okay for now. He's sleeping. No, he's not that sick. Just a cold."

Just a cold.

Famous last words.

.***.

Blaine dropped by right after school (he hadn't been able to concentrate on his math test, might as well have skipped it. He just kept thinking of Kurt lying on the couch, hands cold as death, face so hot he'd actually flinched at the touch) to find the house empty except for Finn, who was standing in the living room, looking dumbstruck.

"What happened?" Blaine asked, that knot of dread tightening in his stomach. "Where's Kurt?"

"He was so hot, and he wouldn't open his eyes. I thought, you know, we should take his temperature, but then he started coughing so bad he turned blue." Finn looked at Blaine, confused, "I don't get it. It's just a cold."

It wasn't, though. It was pneumonia, a deadly strain. On a big, strong, twenty-year-old man, it would have knocked him flat for two weeks or more. On Kurt? Slight Kurt, who hadn't been eating well, not since the race for class President had kicked up, not since before West Side Story, with rehearsals for hours after school. On Kurt, the disease could go one of two ways: it could wreak havoc on his body, lay him out for a month, leave him thin and frail.

Or it could kill him.

.***.

It got bad fast.

Blaine sat with his hand entwined with Kurt's. Finn was next to him, pretending to read a sport magazine but jumping every time Kurt coughed. Burt had gone to help weather-proof the shop, and Carol had gone with him, in hopes that another pair of hands would help to speed the process along.

"This is all my fault," Blaine said, staring at the too-high number that was Kurt's temperature. It had risen since just an hour before, from 104.8 to 105.1. Dangerous territory. Around the temperature in which brain cells boiled, or at least that's what his biology teacher said. "I shouldn't have let him leave."

Finn, who'd heard this story the night before, sighed and put down the magazine. He'd been reading it for fifteen minutes and still didn't know which NFL teams were in line to go to the playoffs. "Dude, you couldn't have made him stay." He yawned, stretched, and looked at Kurt. A flash of compassion and fear raced across his face and Blaine felt himself loving him for that. Finn and Kurt may not be related by blood, but no one could say that these two weren't brothers. "What were you guys arguing about anyway?"

"Something stupid," Blaine said, cheeks reddening. "It doesn't matter now, anyway."

His words hung in the air, heavy with implication. It didn't matter now, because Kurt might die. He might die tonight because of a cold. A cold! Wasn't this the twenty-first century? Didn't they have medicine to combat stuff like this? Dying of pneumonia, as a teenager, in America? That doesn't happen.

"We have the time," Finn said quietly, "I don't know about you, but I'm not going anywhere tonight."

Blaine glanced over at him. "We were talking about you." Finn raised an eyebrow, confused, and Blaine sighed. "Look, it wasn't a big deal. Kurt was just…well, you know how he's been about bullying recently…he was saying that if I don't, you know, tell you off in Glee when you get all over me about solos, then I'm letting you bully me." At Finn's stunned face, Blaine hastened on, "I don't think you are! That's why we argued."

"I don't…I mean, I know I get up in your grill sometimes…" Finn rubbed the back of his neck, "I mean, it's not because you're gay or anything. I'm not Karofsky."

"That's what I told him," Blaine said, rubbing Kurt's hand between his own. "But it just escalated." The monitor beeped and both Finn and Blaine held their breaths as the number went up another decimal point. Blaine felt blood pump in his ears, wavered on tenterhooks. But it was just him and Finn, and if he didn't talk the silence would consume both of them. And he so wanted to be friends with this boy… "He called me a coward."

"What?"

"I understand why." Blaine pushed back Kurt's damp hair, forcing himself not to flinch at the heat. "I urged him to confront Karofsky last year. You know what I did when I got jumped? I transferred schools."

"You got jumped?" Finn asked, aghast. "When?"

"Kurt never told you?" Finn shook his head no, and Blaine put his head on one hand. "It was right after I came out. I went to a dance with the only other gay kid in the school and three guys came up and just beat the _crap_ out of us. Brad was braver than me, too. He's still in the same school system. Has a boyfriend now. We compare scars sometimes."

"Literal scars?" Finn asked, morbidly fascinated.

"Yeah." Something about the fact that his boyfriend was dying made Blaine lift up his shirt so you could see the faint white scars that littered his torso. Finn glanced at them, then looked quickly away, sickened. "I was really self-conscious about them for a long time. I wouldn't even let Kurt see me with my shirt off."

"I wouldn't do that." Finn said, feeling dizzy and sick. Is this what people thought of him? That he was capable of acts like this? Is this what _Kurt _thought, that he was a bully like Karofsky? Kurt, who was a brother to him, who was dying and taking a piece of Finn's heart with him... "Blaine, you have to believe me, I would never…not for any reason, least of all because you're gay. I don't care."

"Not many people actually do." Blaine smiled, just a twitch of the lips, and adjusted his shirt. "Don't worry, Finn. I believe you're one of the nice ones. I see how you are with that kid Rory." His voice got low and serious, and he held Finn's eyes for this last part. "You're a good brother."

"Then why is Kurt dying?" Finn asked, his voice cracking. And, as if his words had summoned it, the monitor started beeping, shrill, high, as Kurt's temperature fluctuated for the last time…

.***.

"Think of my lifelong sorrow…" Blaine sang softly, looking out the window. The bright day was taunting him, and the sun reflected off the snow. "If you got pneumonia and died." He choked, stopped singing.

"Shut up, Blaine." Kurt's voice was weak, and he coughed after the sentence, but at least he was still there. The doctors assured them that the worst was over. "You're not funny."

"It's a little bit funny."

"Did you know I was madly in love with you when we sang that song together last year?" His voice was the thinnest whisper, and Blaine went to sit on the bed again. Burt was there, asleep, a newspaper on his chest. Carol had cajoled Finn into going home for some actual rest.

"I had an inkling."

"Tease."

"Always." Blaine assured him, kissing Kurt's knuckles. In the three days since the illness started, Kurt had lost six pounds. Six pounds! His boyfriend looked so small, so frail, so breakable, and Blaine's breath caught in his throat at the thought of losing him.

"I really can't stay…" Kurt began, his voice thready and weak but still amazing, still _Kurt_, and Blaine thought they'd be okay.

"You know, tomorrow's Thanksgiving." Blaine said mildly, "My dad has to work, so I thought I'd crash yours."

"Because me not being able to sit up is going to make for a festive holiday."

"Well, since you're what I'm most thankful for this year, I thought it would be appropriate."

What could Kurt say to a line like that? The drugs were already luring him back to sleep, but he managed to raise his neck enough to meet Blaine's lips half-way. Because a little thing like pneumonia couldn't stop true love, not in a million years.

.***.

**a morbid thanksgiving story, but one nonetheless. we are currently thousands of miles away from where we want to be for the holiday, but we sincerely hope all the rest of you are not. we wish all the best of the season for you all: may you be healthy and happy and with who you want to be with. **

**as always, drop us a line if you have a request/have a rant/have an opinion/want to say hey for the holiday.**


	7. Accident

**Warnings: None**

****A/N: This from a request by Lalice of Roses, who wanted people to be beat on because it's just fun to watch everyone try to put them back together.****

**Summary: The bus overturns on the way to Sectionals. It's just bad luck at the quarterback hurt his hand, that the dancer gets pinned by the legs, that the Freshman thousands of miles from home is the one bleeding out all over Mr. Schuester...**

**.***.**

_"Always the innocent are the first victims. So it has been for ages past, so it is now." **J.K. Rowling**_

Schue forced his eyes open when he heard the kids screaming.

What had happened? In that second before he could fully force his lids up (and why was it so hard? Had he fallen asleep? But those weren't happy screams, the we-just-spotted-where-we're-having-Sectionals-and-are-pumped screams. These had pain. And sadness) he tried to remember what he'd been doing.

They were on their way to Sectionals, and he'd been sitting up front near the bus driver when he spotted Rory staring morosely out the window. The kid was young, but his voice was amazing and he was always smiling, always happy. So Will went to sit next to him. "What's up?"

"It's nothing, Mr. Schuester." The kid said, his lilting Irish accent making him sound impossibly mature, even though Will knew that he was just fourteen, their Freshman. "Just a little homesick."

"You're not used to America yet?"

"It comes in waves. Mostly I miss home most at night, when I'm not doing anything much, you know? But then there's times like this…I just know my parents would like to hear me sing. And my brothers." Rory sighed and ran a hand through his hair, then smiled. "But they're coming to visit me for Christmas! Only ten more days."

Will didn't have any words of wisdom to share with this kid. He'd never been outside the country – Hell, he'd never been on the other side of the Mississippi – and had stayed In State for school. When he'd wanted to go home – rare as that impulse had been – he'd had the option to just jump in a car and go. Not so for Rory, and high school wasn't college. He knew of a couple of cases when the kid had been harassed for his accent, like he could help a thing like that. "It'll get better." Will said, squeezing the boy's arm and thinking about doing something to help him out next week. Maybe make it heritage week in Glee club? Songs of people's ancestors and their homes?

Rory had just flashed him a smile, eyes wide and grateful, when there was a scream, a crash, and the world went dark.

Now he opened his eyes and the first thing he saw was Rory. Young, kind, innocent Rory slumped forward with his hair matted with blood. He reached out shaking hands to him, uncomprehending, unable to even begin to understand. There was too much blood, his hands were too slippery, to even feel for a pulse. "Hey!" He yelled, his voice a croak, a whisper. He tried again, "Hey! Who's hurt? Talk to me!"

More yells, people's names, and Schue could pick out a few voices, a very few. And there were some that were noticeably absent. "Come on, Rory." Will said, putting a hand on the youngest Glee member's neck again. A pulse, thread and erratic, and suddenly Rory gasped in a huge breath, eyes flying open.

And then Rory began to scream, too.

.***.

Kurt happened to be looking out the window. Blaine and Rachel had been talking about some musical they'd both seen three or four years ago at the local theater. Oklahoma? Hello, Dolly? Kurt didn't really know. It had gotten to the point where Finn sighed and switched seats with Blaine, tired of the conversation being shouted over him.

"Nervous, Kurt?"

"Not really." Kurt said, shrugging. "A little sad. It's our last Sectionals."

"Yeah." Finn said, looking out the window as the Ohio landscape sped by under the highway. "Look, Kurt…"

He was about to confide in his step-brother the thing he hadn't told his mother, or Burt, or Rachel. Anyone. How he'd been thinking about joining the army ever since the recruiters had taken over the cafeteria three weeks ago. How he'd been looking at pictures of his father in uniform and wondering if that wasn't his path after all. Like father like son, right? And somehow the thought of serving his country felt _right_ to him. Like when you put down that puzzle piece and can suddenly see that the picture is a mountain, or a straight path through dark woods.

But then Kurt screamed Blaine's name, and something jolted, and Finn didn't even think. He was facing the aisle, away from Kurt, but within easy grabbing distance of the dark-haired Junior who everyone inexplicably loved. Who Kurt loved.

So just as the bus became another part of that fourteen car pile-up on the interstate, Finn Hudson locked his arms around Blaine Anderson and held on tight.

Which is why, when the smoke cleared, Blaine blinked to find himself mostly unharmed. But Finn had knocked his head against the back door and he was bleeding, bleeding from so many places Blaine didn't even know where to start. "Kurt?" He called, voice shaking. Kurt was there, almost hidden. The bus had flipped on its side and Kurt was pinned under a seat.

And then Blaine turned to look for Rachel, but she was gone. All he could see was a broken window.

.***.

Puck was sitting next to Artie, because he didn't need drama in his life and sitting next to Quinn would have meant drama. Plus, Artie was easy to talk to. The cripple knew a surprising amount about football, and they whiled away the bus ride talking about their fantasy teams.

Artie had just finished telling him about the Lions tickets his family got every year. "My uncle backed out, so we have an extra ticket." Artie eyes Puck, then said, shrugging, "You can have it. If you want. The game's not until the beginning of January, but…you know, it might be nice to have someone there who won't fall asleep at half time."

"Your parents won't have a problem with me?" Puck asked, spreading open his hands and examining his fingernails as if they were the most interesting things in the world. He usually glorified in being what other people's parents called a _bad influence_, but with Artie it was different. Maybe because he'd been Puck's charity case last year and had stuck by him when he'd hit a rough patch? Maybe it was just the tickets.

"Don't tell any amusing anecdotes from your time in juvie and I think we'll be okay." Artie said dryly. He tapped his fingers on the chair and glanced out the window. "What the…?"

But that's all he had time for. All that he could say before the bus flipped, and Artie flew out of his chair, and the world flipped on its axis, sending them reeling into a path none of them thought they'd be on.

.***.

Here's what the bus was like right after the thirteen-car pile-up stopped traffic on the highway to Sectionals that day in December:

The bus driver died. Hit his head against the steering wheel and his forehead crushed in. He died peacefully, and he deserved to. He was a young man named Carlos, who had a young pregnant wife. Carlos was driving the bus for free, a favor to Will Schuester who had been driving through a bad neighborhood when he saw Carlos's very pregnant wife waiting for a bus in the rain. He'd done a Good Samaritan and picked her up, even stopping at a coffee shop to pick up some tea to warm her. Carlos didn't forget things like that, and now he dead for trying to pay a debt. No good deed goes unpunished.

Will was trying to calm Rory down, but the Freshman was having none of it. He was looking at his arm and screaming, and Will didn't know what was scarier: the blood gushing like Ol' Faithful or the fact that, even ten seconds, twenty seconds after the crash, Rory's screams were getting quieter. So much blood was on the seats, on Rory, and now on Will as he pressed his hands against the artery that had been split open when Rory was flung sideways, almost through the window.

"Rory! Rory, look at me. Yeah, that's right. You're okay. You got that? You're going to be okay!" Rory nodded, head bobbing like a man having a seizure. He let out another little scared sob, then bucked when Will pressed harder.

"Hurts…" And that moan made Will's heart break.

"I know, kid. I know it hurts. You just gotta hold on another couple of minutes. You're going to be okay."

But now Will's hands were slipping, too slick with blood to stay on the right part of the arm. And so much blood! Scarlet drops, more precious than rubies, running down the poor kid's arm.

"It's cold, Mr. Schuester." Rory murmured, and his head drooped forward.

"No! Rory, no, it's okay. You'll be okay. Stay with me!" And Will was still saying that when the paramedics burst in and stole the Freshman from his arms, hustling him out of the bus and leaving Will to stand there, staring after him, his hands and arms accusingly red.

But he had other kids to worry about. Now that Rory was gone he could hear them again, and Puck was right next to him shouting for somebody, anybody, to help him. "Puck, are you okay?" Will dropped to his knees, reaching shaking hands for a cut on Puck's arm…but no, this was no geyser but merely the sort of scratch you would get playing a rough game of football.

"Artie!" And it was only then that Schue saw Artie cradled in Puck's lap, face terribly pale. "He fell and…I don't know, he hit his back. What if he broke it again? He hasn't woken up. And he's not breathing right…"

"Okay, Puck, you gotta let him go. Let these guys take him." Because some paramedics were trying to drag Artie from Puck and the JD actually _growled _at them, cradling Artie to his chest. "Go with him. Can you do that for me, Puck? Take care of Artie and Rory. Please, I have to stay here. Go on. Good job. It'll be okay."

And, slowly, Puck got to his feet. "This is a crap Senior Sectionals, Mr. Schue."

Will nodded and moved back a couple more seats. Here was Tina, kneeling on too-tilted ground, Mike's head in her lap. For the first time, Will felt like he was going to be sick. It was just unfair that their best dancer, the boy who'd defied his father for the art, would be the one pinned with a seat collapsed on top of his legs.

The teacher didn't even stop. Quinn was sitting with Tina, and she could care for the crying girl better than Schue could. And Quinn looked up at him, "He's alive. Finn…I saw Finn back there."

Will nodded, moved further back. There was someone standing, almost falling over, unsteady on his feet and not used to the tilted world yet. "Blaine?" Schue reached out to steady the dark-haired Junior. "What happened?"

"Why would he…? Finn protected me. Took most of the hit. I don't get it. He doesn't like me." Blaine lifted his eyes to meet Will's and then turned so quickly he fell, scraping his hands on the jagged metal that was now the enclosed world they were in.

"Careful!"

"Kurt!" Blaine tried to scramble over the fallen chairs to get to his boyfriend. Will, taller, more upright, could see Kurt. And he pushed Blaine back.

"Get out. I'll get Kurt."

"No! I have to see if he's alright!"

"Now, Blaine! See if you can get Finn. He'll be okay." Will started going for Kurt, then suddenly turned. "Where's Rachel?"

And then he saw the broken window, big enough for a smallish girl to get through. That's when he began to think that maybe it wouldn't be okay.

.***.

Everyone had been on their way to the competition, so they detoured and made it to the hospital pretty quickly.

"Being thrown out of a bus sounds _so cool_!" Sam's brother said, legs swinging so they'd thump against his chair every few seconds. He was kind of stoked about the turn of events. It was way cooler than seeing Sammy sing, again. "And it didn't hurt too bad?"

"No. But the girl I was with is hurt. Shut up now, okay?"

Stacy, his sister, had been gazing around the room, and now hopped up and went over to Blaine, sitting with Burt and Carol. Blaine's father hadn't been on his way to Sectionals. He'd never seen his son sing (called it _unbearably gay_, but that was beside the point now, wasn't it?) "You look sad. You're not hurt, are you?"

"No." Blaine said, twitching his lips into a smile when Stacy climbed onto his lap.

"You look like Sammy did when his girlfriend got hurt over the summer. She went to my little league game and got hit by the ball in the mouth. She needed three stitches. Did your girlfriend get hurt?"

"Kind of." Blaine said, looking over Stacy's head to Sam, who shrugged. Stacy would learn about homosexuality sooner or later. Might as well learn it from Blaine. "He's my boyfriend. His name is Kurt."

"I know Kurt!" Stacy said, excited. "He came over last year and watched _The Sound of Music_. He sings prettier than Maria, and he's not even a girl." Stacy touched Blaine's face, where a huge bruise stretched from his forehead to chin. "That looks like it hurts a lot."

"Not so bad."

"Because your heart hurts? Sammy said his did when Kate got hit by the ball."

"Yeah," Blaine said, swallowing hard. "My heart hurts."

Carol leaned forward and put a hand on Stacy's shoulder, "Sweetheart, why don't you leave Blaine alone? He's not feeling well."

"No, it's okay Mrs. H." Blaine said, shrugging.

"I just got one more question." Stacy said loudly, "Do you know Finn? He came over last year too. He's Kurt's brother. Or something. I forget. He was nice, anyway."

Well, that was just too much. Now Blaine pushed Stacy away, who looked affronted for a moment before skipping over to the group of girls in the corner. "Hi, Quinn!" She _loved_ Quinn. She used to come over after church and let Stacy play with her makeup, plus she was about the prettiest girl Stacy had ever seen, ever. "You cut your hair!"

"Yeah, I did. Can you use your inside voice, honey?" Sam's mother was coming over to scoop Stacy up, but Quinn shook her head. The distraction was good for them.

"I forgot." Stacy said, her voice a decibel quieter. Then, in a stage whisper, "Why is she crying?" Pointing at Tina who, indeed, hadn't stopped crying since the accident. Mike's mother was sitting with her, stroking her hair.

"Her boyfriend likes to dance and his legs got hurt."

"Everyone's boyfriend is getting hurt!" Stacy said, exasperated. "She should talk to that boy," pointing at Blaine. Blaine, who had just been pulled into a hug by Burt and was now sobbing, unable to control himself. He hurt all over, and, like Stacy had said so easily, the worst was his heart.

Stacy turned to the last couple of girls. "And why are you crying? Did your boyfriend get hurt, too?"

"Her leprechaun." Santana said, and she tried for snarky but just came out sad. Rory still wasn't out of surgery, and it had been hours. Sectionals had been postponed – two groups just wasn't enough for a competition, and once Britney had gotten the text from her father about Rory she, Santana, and Mercedes were no way going to perform.

"You have a leprechaun?" Stacy shouted, forgetting again about her inside voice in her excitement. Santana rolled her eyes and Sam came over to pick Stacy up.

"Don't worry about your dancing boyfriend!" Stacy called over Sam's shoulder. "Sammy hurt his arm and still got to play football. Everything will be okay!"

That old lie again.

.***.

"Are you sure you're okay? That bruise looks awful."

"I'm not the one who got a cyborg arm grafted on their body." Blaine shuddered, remembering how Kurt had looked when he finally got out of the bus, supported between Mr. Schuester and an EMT. How the bones in his arm had been poking through too-pale skin. How he'd been in so much pain he'd been _keening_. A sound like a dog that had just had its tail stepped on.

Kurt lifted his face to Blaine and got a kiss. Blaine, who had spent the last four hours thinking of the worst case scenarios, pushed for a deeper kiss, longer, and he leaned over the bed. "Blaine! Dad and Carol are right outside." They'd stepped out to talk to the doctor and fill out paperwork. Kurt pushed away, yawned – they'd given him the good drugs – and glanced at the bed next to him.

"Do you know why he did it?" Blaine asked quietly, "He doesn't like me."

"Kurt likes you," Finn mumbled, and relief so strong flowed through Kurt and Blaine that they smiled at each other, happy. The doctors had been saying stuff like _if he wakes up_. Always _if_. "Makes you family, Blaine."

"Thank you, Finn." Blaine said, and those words were inadequate, couldn't really express how grateful he was. "You didn't have to do that."

"Totally did." Finn said, drifting back to sleep already, "Kurt's whiny when he doesn't have a boyfriend."

"You just didn't want me crushing on you again." Kurt said warmly, glad that Finn let out a short laugh before he fell back into the painless darkness.

Blaine squeezed Finn's hand, then went back to Kurt and kissed him until Burt cleared his throat at the door.

.***.

"Puck? Were you in here all night?"

"Yeah. The nurses are all over me, man. One even gave me this blanket. Want me to get your parents? They just went to get some breakfast."

"No. Stay. Please."

"Sure thing. Man, you scared me. I thought you were dead. You fell out and hit your back…"

"Ah. I thought something hurt."

"Yeah. Docs said it was mostly shock, but you had a concussion, too."

"How's everyone else?"

"Rachel's up and complaining about missing Sectionals, but she was hurt pretty bad. Broken collar bone and ankle. Kurt's arm looks nasty but other than that he's fine. Finn protected Anderson, stupid jock. He's down for a week or so."

"Protected Blaine? He's taking this leader thing too seriously."

"Tell me about it. Sam didn't let on for a couple hours that his wrist hurt. Kid broke his throwing him. He'll never QB again at this rate. Mike bruised his...pelvis? I know, weird, and he has hairline fractures and up and down his legs. Should walk again, though. Should even dance. But what are the odds, you know? The quarter back hurts his hand. The dancer hurts his legs."

"Murphy's Law."

"Huh?"

"You know. Anything that can go wrong will go wrong."

"Right. Anyway, the only one who's still critical is that kid Rory. Poor guy. Nearly bled out, and he has this weird rare blood. A? B? Whatever, they didn't have very much of it. It still can go either way. He has Schue in with him."

"That sucks. He can't even see his parents."

"I know. Another thing to put down to that Muppet Law."

"Murphy's – oh, what's the point?" Artie was tired, too tired to keep his eyes open, and Puck noticed.

"You can sleep, man. I don't got anywhere to be. You're okay now."

Okay. Yeah, he was okay.

.***.

**1) sam's showing up next episode, right? we love that kid. 2) thanks to everyone for their story ideas. we're going through them, slowly. 3) more story ideas! just keep sending 'em, guys. anything goes. anything that can go wrong will. h/c to the max. 4) merry christmas. it's december, so we can officially say that. hope everyone had a great thanksgiving.**

**drop us a line if you want to talk about the story/talk to two interesting guys/talk about books, music, movies, tv, ect. just drop us a line.**


	8. Slushie

**Warnings: None**

****A/N: This story idea came from our friend Becca, who's our anchor even thousands of miles away.****

**Summary: AU on the Michael episode. Sebastian hits Kurt, not Blaine, with the slushie, and there's more than rock salt buried in it. What can New Directions do to make him understand how wrong that is?**

**.***.**

_"I want to go to a college that isn't a FEMA trailer or a prison yard, so let's take the high road." **Santana**_

It was supposed to just be a sing-off between kind-of friends, almost-rivals. One of those things that you talk about and laugh about but doesn't mean anything, not really. Sure, it decided who would do MJ, which is one of those things that is important at the time but doesn't really matter a year later.

It should have just been another one of their West Side Story snap-offs. It should have just been singing and dancing, and then both groups ending up at Breadsticks because in the end New Directions and the Warblers had too much in common to really hate each other.

But then they introduced Sebastian Smythe to the mix, and he changed things.

First of all, a defense for the poor guy: he comes in at the beginning of the year and all anybody can talk about is the fact that their shooting star (who was, what, a sophomore the year before? What the hell?) had defected to to the other team (not _that_ other team. The show choir kind) and had left them in a bad place.

And, yeah, it wasn't easy to go around all day and hear "Blaine" this and "Anderson" that, and it's hard to break into a group that's mourning someone you never knew. But he tried his best.

And then he actually met Blaine. And he was smitten. And he met Kurt. And he didn't get it.

Kurt Hummel has _nothing_ on Sebastian Smythe. Not the looks, or the attitude, or the voice, and yet he had this amazing guy falling all over him. What the fuck?

If their paths didn't cross so often, it wouldn't be as bad. And it's not that he lived at the coffee shop, it's just that he didn't have anywhere else to go in the long hours between school and show choir, when everyone else was with their families or their friends or their significant other. Sebastian didn't really have any of that. Which is why he hung around the smell of coffee with old books, trying to remember Paris where things made sense.

Also not helping: the fact that Blaine would call him or text him once or three times a week, saying hey, checking in, whatever. And Sebastian grabbed at this as friendship. And, yeah, so he heard they were doing Michael and convinced the Warblers to do him, too. And, okay, maybe because he wanted to see Blaine outside of the coffee shop. So he stole their artist, told them about it, and then arranged the dance off.

And Kurt had been staring at him with that cheeky _I have something you want_ grin. And he knew he needed to get Kurt out of the way.

He'd read enough, been around enough, manipulated enough people to know that if he hurt Blaine's boyfriend, there was a good chance any feelings Mr. Sings-Like-a-Dream had for him would disappear. Because violence isn't cool. Apparently. He knew this, but he went ahead with the slushie plan anyway.

The other Warblers knew about the slushie, and didn't like it even before they found out about the broken glass. "We're not supposed to do that to each other." Trent said, frowning. "That's what other people do to them. Zero-tolerance policy on bullying, Sebastian. Why don't we just stick to singing?"

"It won't hurt him!" Sebastian said, smiling that winning smile that was so sweet it was nearly sour. "Just a reminder that this is a competition."

Trent frowned, shaking his head. "We're friends with New Directions, Sebastian. I don't want to ruin that."

"In the end, there are no friends. There's just winners and losers." God, when had he started sounding like his father?

In the end, Trent had backed down and so had the others. How could they not? Sebastian was the alpha now, and besides...it was just a slushie.

Afterwards, Sebastian would never be able to explain the broken glass, even to himself. At first he'd thought about rock salt - scratchy, a little painful, but not hurting, not really. But something had made him punch the mirror on his wall instead, pick out the tiny shards of glass and drop them in.

...He was thinking about how Kurt looked at Blaine. No, more than that - how Blaine looked at Kurt. As if he was the only thing in the whole world. And Sebastian wanted that so much his stomach clenched at the thought.

...He was thinking about his last school (no, not Paris, before Paris...Korea? Or Wyoming?) Military brats didn't get the best welcome. A gay military brat? Forget it. School was hell for that sixteen months. He'd been punched, kicked, beaten, taunted, thrown in trashcans, and, yes, slushied more times than he could count. It's not an excuse, but it's a statistic. The cycle of abuse?

...He was thinking that he'd never had a relationship that lasted more than a short song and a shorter fuck and then the long period of guilt and disbelief that followed. And he didn't want to do that anymore.

...Most of all, he was thinking that Blaine Anderson needed to be his, or else he might just explode. And desperate times call for desperate measures.

That all adds up to why Sebastian thew the slushie at the end of the song. And then all hell broke loose.

.***.

"Kurt!" It was Blaine and Finn on the ground, not even knowing where to start, or what happened. The red of the slushie was nothing, nothing compared to the red blood that was flowing, flowing from the cuts on Kurt's face. Blaine's brain wasn't working. What had happened? Five seconds ago he was singing, dancing, looking over at Kurt to see him looking over his shoulder at...

"Puck, no!" This from Finn, who'd looked up from his brother to find his best friend on top of Sebastian, fists flying. It was Dalton vs. McKinley from there, and it wasn't pretty.

Blaine moved, half-stood so he was shielding Kurt from further harm. When shifted Kurt moaned. "Don't leave me..."

"Wouldn't think of it, baby. It's okay. You'll be okay. We're calling an ambulence now." Blaine looked up at Finn, whose mouth was slightly open as he gazed at his brother. "Right? Finn? Ambulence?"

"Huh? Oh. Yeah. 9-1-1." Finn's hands were shaking and he dropped his phone once, twice. Blaine put a hand on his wrist. "Breathe. Kurt needs you to do this. Breathe." A tinny voice from the phone _9-1-1, what's your emergancy?_ "And talk. Explain what happened?"

"What did happen?" Finn asked, staring at Kurt...his face, so many cuts. One big one so close to his eye. Another splitting his cheek open. One under his chin. And more, so many more. "Blaine, I don't...what happened?"

The fight had pettered out by then. One of the Warblers, a thin black guy, was kneeling next to Artie, apologizing because even in street fighting knocking a cripple out of his chair was taboo. You don't even begin to go there. Puck had Sebastian on the ground and had an arm around his throat. Not choking, but not making it easy to breathe, either.

"You put fucking glass in that slushie?" Puck hissed, and Blaine turned away and bent over Kurt, clucking soothing words and smoothing his hair. Puck's voice, with so much venom in it, so much righteous hatred, made every nerve stand on end. "What the fuck's _wrong_ with you?"

"Is he hurt badly?" Another Warbler asked, looking genuinely worried. "Blaine? We didn't know, honest. Is Kurt hurt? Will he be all right?"

"He's fine, Dave. Maybe you guys should go. It'd look weird if the ambulence pulls up and sees twenty teenagers hanging around." He shot a glance over at Puck. "Let him up, Puck. Let him go."

"Blaine, are you sure?" Mike asked, "He could have killed Kurt."

Finn was still on the phone with 9-1-1, but he told Blaine with his eyes that he'd go along with whatever Blaine decided to do here.

And Blaine wanted to see this smarmy-ass kid pay for his boyfriend's blood spilling out into the street...except...

Oh, Blaine wasn't dumb. He knew he was good-looking, and before he came out so many girls had had crushes on him he didn't know what to do with himself. Never interested, he'd tried to be nice. But sometimes nice wasn't enough, and they'd get weird and violent, or clingy and whiny. It had started again at Dalton, though boys were a different entity all together. Tripping over themselves to make him happy. Doing anything, anything at all, to get his attention. Always with this expression on their faces, as if Blaine could do no wrong.

And that was the expression Sebastian was wearing now. Behind the fear of being choked to death by Puck was a lust, a craving, that Blaine had seen too many times before to not recognize. And he felt bad, because he knew that he'd contributed to it. A boy had told him once that he was a tease. And maybe he was.

"I know what he could have done." Of course he did. Kurt's eyes were closed, but he was tense with anxiety, and Blaine could feel that under his hands. "Let him go, Puck. You know he's not cut out for juvie."

None of the members of New Directions looked happy when Puck let Sebastian up. "You'll pay." Puck said, eerily calm where a moment before he'd been red-hot with rage. "We're not all as nice as Blaine. Did you know what Kurt was Finn's brother? Or that Finn's the quarterback? You'll pay, kid. Now scram, so I can kill you before the cops get to you."

Finn finally got off the phone. "An ambulance should be here in four minutes." He bent over Kurt, pushed a lock of hair behind Kurt's ear so, so gently that Blaine felt his heart break a little for this pair who had just begun to be like brothers. "You okay, Kurt?"

"Can you call my dad?" Kurt's voice was so small, so scared, that Blaine felt his heart break again. There'd be no more of his heart left at this rate. "And dont' freak him out, Finn. You know how he is."

"Yeah." Finn obviously didn't want to make another phone call, didn't want to leave Kurt when he was (oh my God, he's bleeding everywhere, so much blood, so cut up. He'll scar, this kid who would spend an hour each night working on his skin...) so hurt. But he did, and he looked wearily at the New Directions. Suddenly he felt very old.

"Finn?" Rachel was by his side, fitting in the space under his arm like she'd been made to be there. God, it felt good to have her. "What can we do?"

"Leave." Even though he'd never wanted to hold Rachel so much in his life, just so he could cry with someone else and not feel like Atlas holding the fucking world on his shoulders. "Really, guys. We'll call you as soon as we hear anything, but it'd be best if we didn't have twelve people hanging around." He caught Puck's arm, lowered his voice, "Don't do anything to Sebastian tonight. Not without me."

"And me," said Blaine, never taking his eyes off Kurt.

"And me," said Mike, Sam, Rory, even Artie, Santana, Mercedes.

Finn smiled a little, the ghost of a smile. It was hard to smile when all he could see was Kurt's cut-up face, when his hands were warm with his brother's blood. Rachel stood on her tip-toes and even then could only brush a kiss against his throat. "I wish I could stay here with you."

"I want you here, too." He kissed her, hard. "You know why I'm doing this?"

"Call me when you hear anything." She went over to Kurt, knelt down. "You've had to be so strong already, Kurt. I know it's unfair, but you have to be just a little bit stronger. You'll be okay. Blaine won't let anything happen to you."

Blaine nodded tightly, and they all left. A minute before they heard the sirens in the distance, it was only Blaine and Finn kneeling over Kurt's body.

"I didn't see it," Blaine said helplessly, hand petting Kurt's hair as if he couldn't stop. "The slushie. I didn't see it at all...I was right there, I could have done something..."

"So not even close to being your fault." Finn said, "And Kurt doesn't need you to feel guilty right now. He just needs _you_." Finn, who had been using his shirt to dab away some of the blood, lowered his voice until it was soft, gentle, pleading, "Kurt? Hey bro, I need you to open your eye. Can you see okay?"

"It hurts..." Kurt said. And then he did what was easiest. He used his good eye to get one last glimpse of Blaine, then he let himself sink into the blissfully pain-free darkness.

.***.

"I know a way we can just make him disappear." Santana said. She was sitting on a desk, filing her nails as if thirty seconds ago she hadn't been on her feet, crowding around Blaine and Finn to ask how Kurt was (he would bear small white scars for life, but he'd regain vision in his eye. Probably.) "Honestly, there's this store in Lima Heights..."

"I say we just pummel him." Puck said. He was pacing, a lion trapped in a too-small cage. "Teach him a lesson."

"Well, the best lesson would be to do to him what he did to us." Artie said, "You know, scare him by hurting someone he loves. But I don't think he loves anybody."

"He has a little sister." Santana supplied, "My cousin goes to school with her. Apparently _she's_ not a terrible human being."

"I don't think I'd be down with hurting a little girl." Finn said, frowning. "And I'm pretty sure there's some saying about taking an eye for an eye..."

"We are not turning the other cheek this time, Finn!" Artie shouted, slapping the arm of his chair.

Finn turned to him, "You'd be okay with hurting a little girl to teach Sebastian a lesson?"

"I like being the good guys," Rory said quietly. The kid was so good at blending into the background that Finn often forgot he was there. And then he'd say things like this: "But I think what Sebastian did was barbaric, and so wrong. We don't have to hurt the little girl. BUt the worst part is being afraid, you know? What if we just made him afraid? Just for a little while? Would that be fair?"

Everyone nodded, Puck more slowly than the others. "Can we beat him up, too? I think the kid deserves a couple of bruises."

"For putting glass in a slushie, I think that would be fair." Finn said. He blinked rapidly,not even daring to look at Blaine. He'd lose it if he looked at this guy who looked so sad and lost, so guilty over involving the Warblers, over something he couldn't control. But they could control this. They'd have the final word.

.***.

An eye for an eye when you're one of the good guys: Kurt ends up in the hospital, needing plastic surgery so he wouldn't look like Frankestein. Sebastian gets a call at his school, during class.

No one had spoken to Sebastian since the incident in the parking garage. Even those not in the Warblers were glaring at him: Kurt had been popular in his brief time at Dalton, and word gets around. So he was left sitting my himself in a corner of his Latin classroom, trying to decline nouns while people glared holes into the back of his head.

When the text came he thought he knew what it was about: yet another person spitting anger at him on behalf of Kurt and Blaine, the cutest couple in history (gag). But no, this was from his father...

...Father? He read the text, then stood up and walked out of the classroom, nearly tripping over a chair on his way out. The teacher tried to ask him where he was going but he ignored her, kept walking. He needed to breathe, needed...

This couldn't be happening. But why would his father - his father who barely talked to him even when they were in the same room - send him a text unless it was the absolute truth? ARIANNA IN CAR ACCIDENT. LOOKS BAD. COME TO ST. ANDREW'S NOW.

"Sebastian?" It was Andy, a Frehsman who was apparently the only boy in school who cared that Sebastian Smythe was crying over a bathroom sink. "Are you okay? I know everyone's being awful, but it'll die down, it always does."

Sebastian had to work for several long seconds, hiccuping through his sobs so he could speak. "It's not _that_." He bit out the last word even as he thrust the phone to Andy. It was hard to talk around his closed-up throat. "It's my sister. She's _dying_."

Andy looked from the phone to Sebastian adn back again. Sebastian just stood over the sink and cried and cried. When he looked up Andy was gone, his phone laid carefully on the other sink. He was alone again.

.***.

How Brittney had gotten her hands on Mr. Smythes phone was a long story for another day, but suffice to say it had to do with her uncle's military clearence, a short skirt, and girl scout cookies. Even Brittney could put that story together.

How Sebastian got to the hospital to see his dying sister was a better story. Andy Tanner, a Freshman who knew all about sick little sisters (that was a long story for another day, too...) went back to the classroom and tapped Jeff on the shoulder. The blond looked at him and Andy beckoned him out of the room. Jeff was a nice guy. He followed.

The words were jumbled when Andy tried to get them out, mostly becuase Sebastian's dying sister Arianna kept getting mixed up with his own dying sister Emily (a story for another day) but Jeff seemed to be getting the point. "Where's Sebastian now?" Because no matter how much he thought Sebastian should die in a hole, a guy shouldn't be alone when their little sister was dying.

When he stepped into the bathroom and saw Sebastian there, crying without tears because he'd used them all up, he wondered how this boy - for he was only a boy - had ever managed an act of violence like the one he'd just performed against Kurt. Sebastian just looked sad, and alone, and so scared. "Come on. We'll go see her." Andy even went forward and took Sebastian's hand, who followed him numbly.

"Have you called your dad back?" Jeff asked, digging in his bag for his car keys.

"He won't pick up," Sebastian said, his voice crackly and blurred, "That's not unusual, though. It could mean anything."

"I don't even have words for how I feel about you hurting Kurt like you did." Jeff said, anger makign his words spiky and black, jagged lines against a clean sheet of paper, "And I don't understand Blaine for letting you get away with it," Sebastian cringed and sniffed loudly, looking so much younger than seventeen that Jeff lowered his voice, gentled it. "But I am sorry about your sister. Karma's a bitch, but I didn't expect it to work this fast."

"An eye for an eye and the whole world goes blind." Andy said absently from the back seat, and the other boys ignored him.

.***.

Obviously, when Sebastian got to the hospital, he couldn't find an Arianna Smythe anywhere. Santana's cousin had kept her away from her phone all day, so that a stray text wouldn't ruin the surprise. And Sebastian was surprised. And so, so relieved.

Of course, he did run into Kurt and Blaine and the other members of New Directions. Jeff and Andry sank into the background and Blaine and Finn tried to explain morals to a boy who'd put glass in a slushie to see what would happen next. It didn't sink in. Thinking his sister was dying? That had sunk in. Getting punched in the face by Puck, who just couldn't wait any longer? Well, that made it sink in a little more.

No one ever really knew if Sebastian was sorry for what he did. But he never put glass in another slushie again. And when he got home he hugged Ari so hard she mumbled something about crazy big brothers and went up to her room.

It wasn't a complete transformation, or even a partial one, really. But maybe it was a start.

.***.

**1) sam's showing up next episode, right? we love that kid. 2) thanks to everyone for their story ideas. we're going through them, slowly. 3) more story ideas! just keep sending 'em, guys. anything goes. anything that can go wrong will. h/c to the max. 4) merry christmas. it's december, so we can officially say that. hope everyone had a great thanksgiving.**

**drop us a line if you want to talk about the story/talk to two interesting guys/talk about books, music, movies, tv, ect. just drop us a line.**


	9. Abuse

**Warnings: Mentions of physical/emotional abuse**

**Summary: Puck thought he could handle his mom's boyfriend for the year. Turns out the abusive SOB was meaner than he thought.**

**.***.**

_"It's not a bag thing to want a real life." **Terri Schuester**_

Arguments with Harold usually didn't go well, so Puck just didn't communicate with the other man sharing his living space. If he said where he was going at all, he told the woman who passed for his mother. And this arangement worked for all involved - if each of the men pretended the other was invisable, they could just about survive through the day.

Except for the times when the man really grated on his nerves. Like today, when Harold was yelling at Puck's mother about the credit card bill. And, alright, Lisa Puckerman wasn't exactly a saint when it came to shopping, but she wasn't laying out the big bucks for shoes either. This month's infraction had included getting a washing machine that didn't turn the clothes brown every time they were run through. It'd been doing this for years and finally the one who had to actually fish the clothes out of the muck was tired of it.

"You think I'm made of money!" Not for the first time when Puck winced at how loud the words were, he was thankful that his pool cleaning buisness brought in just enough cash that he didn't have to ask his mother for anything. At least Harold couldn't bawl at him over dough.

Ah, but then he tried to hit her. And, yeah, his mother wasn't exactly known for chosing the cream of the crop, and other guys had hit her, and Harold had hit her, and sometimes Puck himself felt like shaking some sense into her, but now he was big and he played football and he knew how to punch so it hurt so he couldn't stand it anymore. He punched Harold straight in the nose.

Well Harold was forty-nine, with forty-nine years of mean on him. He was also three hundreds pounds of pretty solid flesh. And he just loved seeing this kid layed out on the floor. It got the blood flowing.

Maybe Lisa Puckerman begged her boyfriend to stop whaling on her son. More likely she shook to the side, hoping he didn't turn on her. Puck tried getting up twice and was kicked down twice, the second time so hard he didn't even think about getting up again. He didn't scream, though. Not until his wrist snapped, and even then he bit it back as soon as he could. The bastard wanted to know he was in pain, and Puck wasn't giving him the satisfaction.

When he'd been soundly kicked from here to Doomsday, Harold got tired and pulled Lisa upstairs with him, probably to do some somethin-somethin under the covers to work off the high beating on minors gave him. And Puck moved feebly on the floor, wondering when his life had gotten so miserable.

The problem was that he couldn't call Finn. Sam was already bunking at their house and it was getting mighty full over there, not to mention the fact that Finn was a mother hen at heart and always warned him to stay out of Harold's way (like he didn't try. Like Finn wouldn't do the same thing if it was his mother about to slapped across the face like a common bitch.)

So he stared at the phone, a mile away above his head, and wondered what to do with his life. No way was he staying here tonight. He could crash at Santana's, just a half mile away, but going into the heart of Lima Heights was not what he needed right now. Somehow he didn't think Quinn would be so open to him using her place as a bunker, and though Mike Chang was a solid football player and a good guy, their friendship wasn't such that he could just show up, battered and bruised on his doorstep, and expect some old fashioned Christian charity (were Asians even Christian? Puck's pain-muddled brain tried to think on that thought and came up with nothing.)

And then he remembered that night after the Cherokee game, when those dicks had beat him up on the lawn of their school and Schue had decided to play knight in shining armor (which was a very gay, Kurt thought, now that Puck actually thought it...)

The question was whether or not he'd call social services. Puck was bleeding bad from a cut in his side, had at least one broken bone, and looked like a squashed blueberry after the festival and still he preferred this "home" to any one he could get placed in for the five months he had left of being a minor.

But then a wave of pain crashed over him and Puck's whole body tightened, shook, and he didn't have to think anymore. He needed to go to Schue's, or he might die. Period.

.***.

Will Schuester had never been more scared, or excited. Emma had tenure, which made their futures somewhat more financially secure. He'd switched from Spanish to History, and decided to spend the weekend he had to himself (he didn't have many, but Emma's few friends had decided to celebrate with a weekend in Toledo) reading some old war books his father recommended.

He'd gotten a hundred pages into an overview of the aircraft victories of WWII, opening a new beer every thirty pages or so, when there was a soft knock on the door.  
>He was expecting the pizza boy, Zach McLaran, a Sophomore who was almost as awful at Spanish as Will was. What he got was Puck looking supremely embarassed, not to mention drenched to the skin.<p>

"Puck, what...?" But Will didn't get much further because Puck's body, which had carried him across town and had put up with so much that night, finally decided it was safe enough to give out, and he passed out quietly on Will Schuester's living room floor.

It took some doing, but eventually Will got a pillow to put under the teen's head and some hot water and bandages to start patching him up. He used to avoid being put into these difficult positions. As an only child, he hadn't had to choose which of his sibling's battles to fight. He'd married the biggest drama queen in the world and was therefore immune to getting swept up in drama. But then he became a teacher, and his life had gotten so much more complicated.

It wasn't like beaten kids were coming out of his ears, but he'd encountered a situaton of pretty blatant abuse once before, and it was a part of his life he'd always regret. A slight, dark boy named Joseph used to stay after school during Will's office hours and slowly eat all of the oranges he kept in his desk. There had been bruises, and those confusing little starts if Will moved too quickly. But that was his first year of teaching, and he'd been young. Too young.

He let the boy talk him out of doing anything. "It's really not that bad." Joseph would say, peeling another orange with shaking hands. "Honest. It's all my fault when he hits me, anyway." Two months later Joseph had moved away, and the next time Will heard any news from him was a blurb in the paper** Ex-Bank Manager's Son Killed in Home Accident.** Will knew in his heart Joseph ahd been beaten to death. He broke down that night, sobbing in the shower for the small dark boy who would smile at him around an orange slice.

Now he was mechanically wiping the blood from Puck's many cuts, wondering if he was making the same mistake. Someone had once said that teenage boys must be the most vulnerable group in the world: too young to strike out on their own, too old to ask for help. "I'll call the police." Will said out loud. His voice was shaking.

"I'll lie." Puck groaned, not opening his eyes (one, Will was pretty sure, was swelled shut.) "I'll say I justgot into a fight with a kid. You can't prove anything."  
>Will winced, dabbing at the blood again (and thanking God that Emma was gone again. The mess probably would have driven her crazy.) "Sometimes you need to ask for help."<p>

"This is so not one of those times." Puck winced, sat up a little. "Look, I'm sorry for wimping out on you, but you seriously don't need to call the police. I got five months, Schue. I thought my house was cool enough to sleep in tonight and I was wrong. I'll bunk with the guys, I'll keep out of his hair, I swear..." His voice trailed off and Will was afraid that he would pass out again (he looked so pale!) But instead he asked, "Could we get off the floor? I feel like a piece of meat."

Will had seen pieces of meat that looked better than Puck did, but eventually they made it over to the living room. "Do you want to take a shower or something?"

"I don't think I'd be able to stand up in a shower." Puck said, embarrassed. "It's fine, Mr. Schuester. Thanks for doing this."

"I still haven't ruled out calling social services." Will warned, and he was serious this time. Last time had been a high school smack down, and Puck probably would have cooled his heels in juvie before the whole story came out. But this was abuse. There was no other word for it. "Did he have a knife?"

"Just at the end. That's when mom stopped him." Puck didn't mention that it was the only time his mother stepped in, but he didn't have to. Will Schuester was pretty good at reading expressions. "But honestly, Schue. I'm fine. Finn and Kurt and Santana all live close enough that I can crash at their places when it gets bad. I don't know why you're worrying about me and not And-"

He cut off sharply, looking worried. You don't divulge another kid's secret to a teacher. That was rule numero uno.

But it was too late. "Who? Anderson? You mean Blaine?" Why did Will's life have to be so complicated. "What's wrong with Blaine?"

"I shouldn't have said anything." Puck said, swabbing at a cut that was already clean to avoid looking at his teacher.

"Look," Will said, desperately, "You tell me about Blaine and I'll tell you about the boy I didn't save and then maybe you'll understand why seeing you kids like this makes me so crazy."

Maybe it was the anxiety making his voice high and fierce, but Puck blinked up at him, then nodded. "Okay. But you don't interfere with anything unless Blaine comes to you himself, okay? I been trying to convince him to. I told him how cool you were will me, and Blaine's still got more than a year with the bastard."

"Deal." And, yeah, he felt a little proud that Puck had told Blaine to come talk to him. So he was a trusted teacher still, even if he didn't know any Spanish.

"So it's like this," Puck said, trying to put a Band-Aid on with his left hand and failing miserably. Will let him, because he suspected that Puck was just trying to avoid his gaze. "Over Winter Break, when Finn and Kurt went to D.C., I was out at the park pretty late. Trying avoid home, I guess, and nothiing was open. I was bundled up but Blaine wasn't. I ran into him. He was sitting next to the lake, which had some ice on it but wasn't frozen over. I thought maybe he was thinking about jumping in.

"Anyway, I had my car, so I took him out for some coffee cause he looked like crap. Big bruise on his face, sure, but there was a really nasty one on his arm, like someone'd tried to twist it off. Plus he was shaking, which might have been the cold. He couldn't have had on more than a thin jacket. And eventually he told me that his dad had banged him up - I'm no Sherlock Holmes or anything, but I figured that out for myself - but worse, he'd screamed at him. Horrible things, Mr. Schuester. Things I wouldn't say to someone, no matter how gay they were. And I don't think Blaine even told me the worst of it."

"What did he say?"

"Ask Blaine." Puck said firmly, "Really, I shouldn't be telling you this much. It's his story. But it's been nagging at me ever since. Mostly because he said that - get this - nobody knew. Not the old Warblers, not Kurt, no one. He said that usually he doesn't get it in the face - that must have been a special Christmas present. Usually it's just places that can be covered up by your shirt."

"Wait," Will said, finally realizing what had been nagging at him since the start of this story. "I thought Blaine started Dalton's branch of fight club? Doesn't he know how to defend himself?"

Puck looked angry for the first time, and took his arm away from where Will was trying to wrap bandages around it. "And I play football, so I should stand up to Harold? It's not so easy when it's your dad, Schue. Not even your mom's boyfriend. And Blaine doesn't have his mom - I don't know where she is, but she's not in the picture. It's hard to fight back against the only thing that stands between you and the streets."

"I'm sorry," Will said, feeling truly awful, "I didn't mean it like that. I'm just...my God. You kids shouldn't have to be worrying about things like this."

"Tell me about it." Puck agreed, and stuck out his arm for Will to work on again. "And tell me about that kid."

So Schue did, right down to the oranges. And when he reached the end Puck nodded, looking sad. "I still can't let you call DYFS on me. But talk to Blaine, all right? I'm not saying his situation is...I don't think his father will clobber him to death...but no one should have to be around that kind of nastiness all the time. You know, Schue?"

Yeah, he knew. He just wished he could do more.

And when Emma came back Sunday night, Puck was gone (to Finn's, he'd promised) and all evidence of the violence had been swept away. In bed that night, Will brought up the idea of becomming foster parents.

.***.

**Happy Valentine's Day, all! Hope this helps to brighten up your day (if not, we all get Glee tonight. That's a pretty decent Valentine's Day gift.) Drop us a line if you liked it, or hated it, or have thought of new ways to hurt your favorite characters.**


	10. Cancer

**Warnings: Character Death. Cancer.**

**Summary: Sam has cancer and decides to forgo a way-too-expensive treatment. He'll make the most of his Senior year, then he'll die. And he'll try not to tell anyone along the way. Based on the novel 'Deadline' by Chris Crutcher.**

**.***.**

_"There is a time for everything...a time to be born and a time to die...a time to weep and a time to laugh...a time to mourn and a time to dance...a time to search and a time to give up." **Ecclesiastes 3**_

If he would have pegged someone to pick up on it first, he would have bet all his money on Mercedes, not Rory Flanagan. Really, Rory? But it turns out the Irish kid who looked so innocent had a younger brother who'd gone a couple rounds with the Big C. And he saw the bruises, and noticed the fatigue, and put the pieces together.

For the record, this was three months after the horrible doctor's appointment. That had been in November, when he first noticed the bruises that would take up his whole thigh, wrap around his back. So he stopped by the doctor he went to for physicals before football and basketball seasons, and he'd taken blood and looked very serious and told him that, yes, it was cancer. Far along. Probably incurable, but with the right treatments he could have two, maybe three years. Without treatment? Eight months, on the outside.

And who could blame Sam for wanting to spend the end of his days not imprisoned in a hospital? He told the doc thanks but no thanks, he was through being a charity case and cancer was a major budget breaker. That wasn't it, though. Not even half the story. He was going to die, and he was somehow okay with that. He'd always thought he would die young ("hold onto sixteen as long as you can" right?) This was just a little younger than he expected.

So he hooked up with Mercedes, her huge boyfriend be damned. He got pumped about Regionals and was psyched they won. He took Rory under his wing and hung out with Kurt and Finn, grateful beyong belief that he wasn't with his parents.

It wasn't that he didn't like his family. He loved them, and that was the problem. He never would have been able to keep up the deception,a nd then they would have forced him into a hospital bed. No, it was better he was back at McKinley. He may only have eighteen years on this damn earth, but he would make sure they were good ones. And he deserved a hell of a last year, after all the shit he'd gone through.

And then February came, and he really started to feeling it. The doc, the only other person on earth who knew that Sam's body was rebelling against him, had given him some good pills that kept him on his feet, kept a smile on his face most days. But even those couldn't combat the mets spreading all over his body.

"What kind of cancer is it, Sam?" Rory's lilting voice, which made him soud so innocent even as it made him sound so mature, broke through Sam's delusions that he had everyone fooled. "And why aren't you doing anything to treat it?"

"I'd still die." Sam said, surprised into honesty. "Just slower. And while having less fun."

"There's still a chance!" Rory said, but his voice was pitched low and Sam found himself loving him for that. Rory was still giving him his privacy. "You don't want to fight this? You're one of the strongest people I know!"

"There's a 99% chance I'm going to die, Ror, and that's not an exageration. I'm not spending the end of my days chained to a hospital bed when I could be having fun." Sam clapped the Freshman on the shoulder. "Don't tell anyone okay kid?"

"I should!" Rory whispered, shaking with something like anger. "I shoudl tell Mr. Schuester and your parents and everyone! I watched my little brother die from cancer and I'm not going to sit around while you kill yourself!"

"The cancer is killing me! This isn't suicide, it's pro-choice. I'm choosing to live my life, and you have no right to interfere with that."

Rory looked so sad that Sam was afraid he'd start to cry in the middle of the hallway and give the whole game away. Instead, he just hoisted his backpack higher on his shoulder and walked away, leaving Sam very much alone.

.***.

When Sam collapsed on the stage during practice in April, it was only him and the guys, thank God. If the girls had been there screaming and crying he never would have been able to take it, and he might have broken his resolve and gotten the too-too-late treatment.

But it was only the guys, and Finn was there to make his fall to the ground a little easier. He and Puck moved Sam over to the side of the stage while Blaine ran to get water. Rory just stood therem looking on. Sam raised his eyes to him and smiled just a little, a thank-you for keeping such a huge secret all these months, because although Rory had talked to him a couple of times about the whole cancer thing, he never did go to Schue and never did tell anyone (were all Irish people so loyal?)

"What was that, Sam?" Mike had a hand on his shoulder, "You're one of the best dancers, and you've been almost face-planting all week."

"You got a bug? It's a little late for the flu." Kurt talked like someone who knew that it wasn't a bug and wasn't the flu.

"You can tell us." Artie said quietly. "What happens on the stage stays on the stage."

Suddenly, Sam's throat felt dry, and he couldn't get any words out, not even the smallest sounds. He opened his mouth, closed it again, realizing even as he did that now he really did resemble something with a trouty mouth. "Rory," he managed to croak, pleading with his eyes for the youngest boy present to do this for him.  
>And because Rory was nice, and kind, he explained to the others, who kept looking at Sam to dispute these horrible facts. Four months to live. Horrible cancer that had spread all over his body. Four months to live.<p>

"You're dying?" Blaine whispered, his hand shaking so much that the water he'd gotten splashed onto a sleeve that was probably designer. "Why didn't you get chemo or something?"

"There's no guarentees." Sam raised his eyes to Kurt, who looked either very sad or very angry. "Right, Kurt? No guarentees, and chemo's a horrible way to go."

"It gave my mom another six months." Kurt spat. Definately angry, not sad. Not yet. "It doesn't sound like much, but I was little. Six months was probably the difference between me remembering my mom and remembering stories about her."

"I don't have kids, Kurt." Sam said, taking the water gratefully. He couldn't help but picture the body the water slipped down into - red and pulsing with cancer that had evil little faces, like you'd see in kids' drawings. "I'm just trying to finish high school. That's the whole goal here."

"And you're doing such a great job!" Blaine put his arm around Kurt's shoulders and made soft noises of comfort. Suddenly Sam wished for Mercedes, just so he could have someone to cry against.

"I'm sorry." Sam said miserably, and he was sorry. He was sorry he had to die and fuck up everyone's end to high school. He was sorry he had to die, period.

Puck, who wasn't touchy feely, not ever (no homo! no homo!) pulled Sam onto his lap and held him there, strong arms feeling much more real, anchoring him so much better than Mercedes's gentle embrace. Puck wasn't the best talker, he wasn't good with words, and usually he didn't hug guys. But he hugged Sam now.  
>And that was the first time Sam cried about having cancer.<p>

As he was crying, and all the other boys were crying, they tried to get some questions out between their tears. "Is it a money thing?" Finn asked, "Because we can totally get one of those big fundraisers together."

"It's not a money thing." Maybe it had started off like that, but it wasn't about money, not anymore. "I just don't...I want to go out on my terms, you know? I want to graduate. I want to have a couple of months with Mercedes. I want to be with you guys..."

"We'll be here." Artie said, wheeling forward and taking Sam's hand. If they'd placed bets last year on which of them would die in high school, Artie would have said Puck, out of recklessness, or Kurt, out of hate. Never athletic, proud Sam Evans. Not in a million years.

But he held the hand anyway, and squeezed, and tried to smile around the tears that wanted to fall so badly. "We'll be here until the end."

.***.

The end came fast.

In that way that Midterms look closer on the other side of Christmas Break, death loomed after graduation. That was all that was left on his to-do list, actually. Graduate, and die.

Because of Sam begging them, the Glee club kept the secret to themselves, and the rest of the school thought Sam didn't go out for soccer because he was spending too much tiime with his girlfriend. But Sam didn't want a bunch of people who didn't know him whispering behind their hands when he got his diploma at graduation.

So even the gossips like Santana and Brittney, even the drama queens like Rachel, kept the whole thing under wraps, and they worried about Sam alone.

Mr. Schue found out three days before graduation, when Sam couldn't work up the strength to get out of his chair at the end of Glee. Finn lingered in the doorway but Mr. Schue waved him away. "Tired today, Sam?"

And then Sam looked up at him, and the one-on-one, the lights, the way he looked so sad and hopeless, made something clench in the pit of Will's stomach. This was not a pre-graduation hangover. It was something deeper than that, something worse.

Will didn't have any other classes for the rest of the day, and Sam only had graduation practice, which Schue assured him he could skip. It took five minutes for Will to figure out how to basically carry Sam to his car without looking like he was carrying him, but once he did they headed for the McDonald's take-out, so Sam wouldn't have to get out of the car again. Will drove to the highest point in Lima and parked the car while Sam munched on fries and looked sad and sick.

"What's wrong? You can tell me, Sam."

He was expecting another pregnancy. Or maybe rejection from college. Or a sudden decision to go to the military. He was not expecting cancer. He was not expecting death.

"I'm going to tell my parents, Mr. Schuester. I swear. Let me graduate first. They'll want to drag me back to Kentucky."

This was one of the dilemas that no one ever told Will he'd face being a teacher - choosing between doing what was right and what was necessary.

But in the end, Will just leaned across the car and enveloped Sam in a hug. "I'm so sorry." He said, as a boy fifteen years younger than himself cried into his shoulder because he'd never reach Will's age. He'd never get to do anything. "I'm so, so sorry, Sam."

He wished he could do more. It was another dilema of being a teacher - he usually wished he could do more, and he rarely could.

.***.

Sam spent his last days in his parents house, in the sunniest room. He was in and out of consciousness, and the pain was bad, worse than he'd expected. But he wasn't getting good painkillers because he wasn't going to a hospital, period. He'd take the pain if he got to end his life in the room full of sun.

He was aware of his father crying at one point. Of Stacy climbing on his stomach and screaming and screaming for him not to die. Of his mother sitting in the corner, not leaving, not eating, waiting in vigil already.

And then the Glee club came, and Sam knew it was okay to die when he saw them all standing there, being strong for him. Tina sniffled and Kurt looked like he wanted to bolt, but not a single tear actually fell. Mr. Schuester held his hand and Sam croaked his last words - that Glee had taught him more about being a man than anything else in his life.

He didn't mean for those to be his last words. He meant for them to be something important, or sentimental, or lasting. Something for his parents to hang onto - like "I love you." Something like Steve Jobs (didn't he say "oh wow"? As if he'd seen something spectacular in the distance? That was a comforting thought.)

But after those words he'd murmured to Schue he couldn't say anything more. He didn't have the energy, no matter how much he wanted it.

And suddenly he was afraid. Very afraid. Not of death, not exactly. He was afraid that he'd made the wrong choice, that Kurt was right - six months didn't sound like much, but to a dying man they sounded like a hell of a lot.

Somewhere in that twilight haze, with the Glee club crowded in the too-small room, everyone realized this was Sam's last night. Sam realized it too, and wished for six more months, if only to put off his mother's crying for that long.

Puck climbed into bed with him. Not Mercedes, his girlfriend, who hadn't stopped holding his hand the whole time, hadn't stopped kissing his chapped lips and pale cheeks. No, Puck slid in behind Sam and held him in strong arms.

No one sang. There was a time for song, and there was a time to weep. This was a time to weep.

But they were there until the end. And Puck knew the moment he died, even though he was looking at a point on the other side of the open window. He'd already been limp, but Puck would swear until the end that he felt Sam's soul leave his body, could almost see it flick out the window and up, up into the star-specked sky.

Teenagers shouldn't die. There wasn't a time for that, not really. Good people shouldn't die, and if they had to they should fight until their last breath for a chance to live. Right?

Sam Evans didn't do that. But with his last healthy months he won Nationals, he loved Mercedes, he graduated high school. He changed Rory Flanagan's life by being his first true American friend.

And everyone would remember him because of the way he died. On his own terms.

.***.

**If you liked this, you should definately read _Deadline_ by Christ Crutcher. It's a truly amazing book. Heartbreaking. **

**And if you want us to bash _your_ favorite character, just drop a line.**


	11. Gay Bashing

**Warnings: Mentions of physical/emotional abuse**

**Summary: Blaine put up with his abusive father until he threatened to hurt Kurt. That's where he draws the line. **

_"Do you think my dad built a car with me because he loves cars? I think he did it because he thought getting my hands dirty might make me straight." **Blaine**_

.***.

Except for one character flaw, Kevin Anderson was a stand-up guy. A good job, softball on the weekends, coach of a peewee football team in the fall, he was a model citizen who paid his taxes and voted Republican and kept his lawn green and clean. When his wife took off, leaving Kevin with two sons, one very young, everyone remarked on how well he handled the situation. He chaperoned Cooper's prom and watched him graduate Dalton, his eyes wet with tears of absolute pride.

Except for one character flaw, Kevin Anderson was the perfect dad. Unfortunately for his younger son, that character flaw was an irrational loathing of people who fell in love with someone of their own gender. When he saw these people on television, he'd declare loudly to the room, which usually had 18-year-old Cooper making dinner and 8-year-old Blaine reading, that he thought you should still be able to throw fags in jail.

Cooper didn't say anything, just passed his father another beer and ruffled Blaine's hair. He'd be out of this house in two months, and he wouldn't look back.

By the time Blaine was thirteen, Kevin Anderson's one character flaw had taken on sub-flaws: when he got angry about the prevalence of homosexuality in America, he'd drink far too much. When Blaine wasn't as willing as Cooper had been to join the football team and work on cars and chase girls, his father would give him a smack here, a whack there.

When Blaine went to his father with Andy, a quiet, pale boy who liked writing in a soft leather-bound book he carried with him, and told him that they were going to go to prom together, Andy had bodily thrown Blaine out of the house and shook Blaine so hard he dislocated a shoulder. Later, Kevin apologized, except it wasn't much of an apology:

_"You just scare me, boy. When are you going to grow out of this phase and stop acting like a goddamned freak. Why can't I have a normal son?"_

Prom had been the culmination of everything Blaine feared about himself. When he and Andy were thrown to the ground and kicked, punched, beaten, at first Andy had reached out a hand, trying to find Blaine's, but Blaine turned away, turned inward. He was a freak. His father was right. So many people who hated him for loving boys couldn't be wrong. There had to be something evil and twisted inside of him.

Dalton had helped to change some of that thinking. When David found him singing in the courtyard while he did his Algebra, he asked him if he would like to join the Warblers. "Singing is for pussies." Blaine said, a reflex, even though there was really nothing he'd rather do. Singing made him feel better. He had very vague memories of his mother singing to him.

"Well then, I guess I'm a pussy." David said, shrugging. "If you change your mind, you're welcome any time."

That first semester, Blaine joined the Warblers. Two of the other boys, sophomores named Eric and Carlos, had gotten together. Seeing their happiness made Blaine feel less ugly inside. He started wearing bowties and slicking his hair back. He started singing loudly. He started taking over the group. His father would hit him when he got drunk, but he'd apologize later and give him twenty bucks, as if that could make up for anything. Blaine just sang louder, made a group of friends, started boxing because he thought if he could channel the ugliness into something maybe it would go away. Hitting stuff always seemed to help his father's anger.

Kurt changed everything. He was a thousand times braver than Blaine and yet he hung on to his every word as if he didn't know that Blaine was a freak. When he told his father that he wanted to change schools to stay with Kurt, his father had hit him with his belt, something he'd never done before. The next night Blaine ate dinner at Kurt's house and told him he was transferring to Dalton.

"You hang onto that one, Kurt. He's a keeper." Burt Hummel said, spooning more mashed potatoes onto Blaine's plate and slapping the boy on the back. Blaine sucked in a breath, tried not to look like he was in pain. He would do anything to have Burt Hummel as his father.

When Cooper came back to visit, he'd gone for a walk with Blaine. "I'm sorry I haven't been around much, kiddo. I know dad's a lot to handle."

"I don't blame you for wanting to stay away." Blaine said, shrugging. It was warm, and the fabric of his shirt clung to the new scars his father had given him.

"From dad, not from you." Cooper mussed his hair, "You're such a good kid. I'm sorry dad can't see that." They walked another few feet, Blaine scuffing his shoes on the sidewalk like he used to do when he would follow Cooper to football practice. Anything to be with his big brother. "Kurt seems nice. What does dad think of him?"

"Dad's never meeting Kurt." Blaine spat, his voice shaking at the thought. It was in some of his nightmares, his father taking his irrational fear out on his boyfriend and forcing Blaine to watch.

Cooper stopped suddenly and slipped his hand under Blaine's shirt, feeling his way up his back until he touched one of the still-healing marks. "Goddamnit, kid. Why didn't you tell me it had gotten this bad?"

"You left me alone with our homophobic father. I'm gay. It's not that hard to guess what happens next, Cooper. But you never did like facing the facts." Blaine shook off Cooper's hand, even though his touch had been cool and soothing.

"Have you told anyone?" Cooper asked, but didn't wait for an answer, "Of course you didn't." He ran a hand through his hair, looking around at the quiet street as if it would give him the answers. "Maybe I shouldn't go. Maybe I'll stay here, get an apartment. You can live with me."

"You don't want to do that, Coop. It's fine. I'm fine. It's only one more year." But his stomach was already in knots thinking about next year. Without Kurt, with his father, it would be hell.

It was at that instant that Blaine decided to leave and never look back. He meant to do it when Kurt took off for NYADA. He'd just hitch a ride and they'd be together in New York. He'd get a job somewhere or not. That part didn't really matter. What would matter was that he would be with his boyfriend and would pass out with painkillers in his hand anymore.

That night, Cooper confronted their father about the way he'd been treating Blaine and threatened to call the police. Kevin Anderson had begged off, saying he was sorry and he wouldn't do it again, he'd seen the error of his ways, Blaine was a nice boy. Cooper had seemed willing to accept this, told Blaine to call him if anything else happened, and left the house that night.

When the car had turned into the next block, Blaine's father turned to him, eyes narrowed. "You trying to turn my only normal son against me, boy?"

"Cooper figured everything out himself." Blaine said, thinking about the punching bag he liked to hit at school and wondering if he could do that to his father.

"I've been trying for years to make you normal. I thought I did it, too, then that Kurt came along." Kevin spat the name, "Maybe I should introduce him to our little lessons. The more the merrier."

"You're not going to touch Kurt." Blaine said, raising his fists. "I'm not going to let you. And I'm leaving." He didn't know where the last part came from, but as soon as he said it he knew it was the right thing to say. Yes, he was leaving. His life would be a dream except for this part of it - he had an amazing boyfriend and great friends and a passion for singing. And he was _good_ at it, even if it was a faggy profession like his father said it was. So he was getting out. He was taking his life back.

Kevin Anderson wasn't a bad guy, but something about his younger son's defiance brought out the worst in him. Why couldn't he just like girls? Why couldn't he just play sports? Why couldn't he just be like all of his friend's sons? Paul Winchester was always talking about his boys who played lacross and ran track and dated cheerleaders and went hunting with him every year. Blaine had thrown a fit when Kevin even talked about hunting.

He couldn't let Blaine go. That would be like saying he'd given up, and he wasn't giving up on his son having a normal life. Didn't he know how cruel people could be? Didn't he know that he could never be like everyone else? So if Blaine tried to walk out the door, he would give him one last lesson. One he wouldn't forget.

.***.

Will Schuester was having a pretty great day. On his way back froom his father's house he'd picked up some flowers for Emma, who would no doubt be asleep when he got back but would appreciate them at the table in the morning. Emma used to hate flowers, but Will would bring her a single white rose every day. White and clean and pure. And eventually it was two drooping lilies, then three daffodils, four daisies, five lilacs, until he worked up to a bouquet on Valentine's day. Emma had put her face in the middle of the bunch and breathed in the smell of them.

He was thinking about the look on Emma's face when she woke up to the arrangement when a shape stumbled into the street. Will slammed ont he breaks and stopped just in time to keep from hitting the figure. "Oh God!" He yelled, fumbling his way out of the car. "Are you okay? Did I hit you?" He reached for the form on the ground and was surprised when a voice said, low and pleading, _please, don't...please..._

"Blaine?" Now Will was quick, pulling Blaine onto his lap. It _was_ the Junior, half-dressed, bleeding. He screamed when Will moved him and the teacher could only murmur soft meaningless words. "It's okay, it's Mr. Schuester...it's okay...shh...shh, you'll be okay." He cradled Blaine's torso in his lap, wishing for more light. "I'm going to take you to the hospital, okay? Blaine?"

"Please don't..." Blaine said, and for a moment it was months ago and it was Puck Will was holding and Puck begging him not to take him to the hospital. Puck had ended up at his house twice, both times bruised and the battered. The second time he'd said something about Blaine...

And Will was such a pushover that he caved into the whims of a hurt teenager. "Okay, no hospital. I'm just going to take you to my house, okay?"

"Kurt..." Blaine said, opening the eye that wasn't swollen shut. "He's going to hurt Kurt..."

Well, the Hummel's house was closer. "Okay, we'll go to Kurt's instead. You're going to be okay. I have to get you into my car. It's going to hurt." Blaine nodded bravely and bit his tongue like he'd bitten it through the beating, because whining would make his father hit harder.

Will left Blaine in the car to knock on the door of the Hummel-Hudson house. It was Finn who answered the door, wearing only sweatpants, his feet bare. "Mr. Schue? What's going on?"

"I need your help. We need to get Blaine inside. Is Kurt here?"

"What? Yeah, he went up to bed an hour ago." It was nearinig midnight, and Finn had been in the living room getting a late-night snack while texting Rachel.

"Help me get Blaine inside first." Will said, leading the way to his car. Finn followed, and though he'd seen Puck after Harold got a hold of him, it didn't really prepare him for the sight of Blaine Anderson looking like hamburger meat.

"Oh my God," Finn said, gently unbuckling the seat belt and pulling Blaine against his chest. He slid an arm underneath, around, and lifted him up like he would lift the boys on the football team when Coach Beaste made them run bleachers carrying a buddy. "What happened?"

"I think it was his father." Will said, putting his arms out uncertaily, ready to catch Blaine if Finn should falter, but the tall boy never did, just hugged Blaine to his chest and took small steps towards the front the door. Will ran ahead and opened it so Finn could go through. He deposited Blaine on the couch as gently as he could, but the younger boy still moaned a little, trying to curl in on himself. In the lights of the living room he looked worse.

When Finn straightened up he had smears of Blaine's blood on him. "I'll go get Kurt," he said, "and Burt. He'll know what to do." Will nodded, grateful at the prospect of having another adult in on this mess.

Kurt, who was woken up by his brother covered in blood, flew upstairs and knelt next to Blaine. "Oh God, is he okay? Shouldn't he be at a hospital?"

"It looks worse than it is, babe." Blaine's voice was weak but his grip when he reached for Kurt's hand was strong. "And I asked Mr. Schue to take me here. I wanted to make sure you were all right."

"I'm fine." Kurt said, blinking away tears angrily. He didn't know why he was crying, except that he was scared. He'd never seen so much blood. "What happened? Who did this to you?" He was thinking of jocks and gay bashers. He remembered the time of night and wondered if Blaine had gone to a bar.

"Let him breathe, Kurt." Schue said. He had a wet washcloth and started wiping the cuts. "You're going to have to turn over, Blaine. The worst of it's on your back."

"What the hell's going on here?" Burt asked when he got into the room. Kurt breathed a sigh of relief and ran over to his father. His whole life, hid dad had made everything better. Maybe he could work his miracles on Blaine. "Schuester? Why did I get woken up by one of my boys covered in blood?"

Will explained as best he could, the words tripping on the way out. He continued to clean Blaine's injuries, and Finn knelt by his side with bandages, trying to pretend this was just another sports injury.

In the end, Burt sat in a seat and leaned down so he and Blaine were eye-to-eye. "You dad been doing this to you, son?"

Blaine didn't know what else to do. How could he deny anything now? He nodded.

"And you didn't tell anyone? Not your teacher, not your boyfriend? You decided this was your burden to carry alone?" Burt put his head in his hand, rubbing his temple for a quick fix. "Let me guess. He's not exactly thrilled you bat for my son's team?"

"Not exactly." Blaine said, looking down.

"Right." Burt stood, "Well, obviously you're not going back there. I happen to know a couple of cops who wouldn't mind paying a late-night call."

Blaine squaked in disbelief, sitting up despite his injuries. "What? No, you can't arrest him! He's my dad."

"I'm sorry kid. This is not your call. You're a minor. He's your guardian. No one deserves to be treated like that in their own house, and I'm don't want to wake up again in the middle of the night to find a kid bleeding to death on my couch."

"But - where will I go?" He had nothing, nothing. He'd never had a job, not even a summer one. He had no money, and now no father.

Burt looked so sad at that sentance. "You'll stay here as long as you need. I got a feeling your father did a number on you, kid, and I'm not talking about those belt marks on your back. Well, Kurt can tell you that I'm a good listener. I don't know much about psychology or what have you, but I know a little about teenage boys. I've even specialized in the gay ones." He tipped his son a wink and Blaine felt like he was going to cry at the level of kindness being shown to him.

"I...I don't know what to say."

Burt stood up, took one of the washcloths and used it to gently wipe the blood from Blaine's chest. "Say you'll go to the hospital. Say you'll press charges against your father. There's so many people in the world who care about you, kid. No use in wasting time with someone who doesn't."

"I didn't mean for any of this to happen," Blaine said miserably. "He just...he said he would hurt Kurt. I didn't know what to do. I hit him."

Burt's face darkened and Kurt's paled. He kissed his boyfriend gently, kissed him on his cheeks, and tasted the salt of his tears. "My knight in shining armor."

"I love you," Blaine said desperately. Kurt had to know this, had to understand. Blaine was falling into the deep welcoming pit of unconsciousness but Kurt had to understand this much.

"I love you too. So much." And Blaine finally let go of the world, with love imprinted on his ears and lips and heart.

**.***.**

**we just saw the nationals episode and remembered why we loved this show so much. once more: anyone wants to see some violence or h/c or something strange happen to your favorite character, drop us a line and we'll see what we can do.**


	12. Lima Heights

**Warnings: Mentions of physical/emotional abuse**

**Summary: What actually goes down in Lima Heights? And how do they react to one of the toughest girls of all of them coming out of the closet?**

_"I'm from a part of town called Lima Heights Adjacent. Do you know where that is? It's on the wrong side of the tracks." **Santana**_

.***.

Santana had always lived in Lima Heights Adjacent. When she was three, she'd been using chalk to cover her two-by-four-foot front stoop in an inaccurate picture of Pooh Bear when a couple of five-year-olds stomped on her chalk and called her "a piece of shit" for crying. She never cried again, not in front of anyone from Lima Heights.

When she was six, her bike, which her mama had scrimped and saved to buy for her, was stolen. They'd cut the lock to get to a purple flowered bicycle. Santana didn't cry, but when she saw Carla Garcia riding it down the street, she launched herself at her and took her down, bike and all. It was the first time she'd ever won a fight.

When she was nine, she joined a loose group of friends that might have been called a "gang" on the local news stations. They didn't think of themselves as a gang, just a group of young kids trying to defend themselves against other groups of young kids. They were the _tiburones_, the sharks. She liked the name. She liked being a shark. Her _abuela,_ while cursing her out during the commercials on her _telenovelas_, told her never to be a guppy, to always stay a _tiburon_, and no one could hurt her.

One of her fellow _tiburones_ was a boy named Eduardo, who taught her how to punch someone so it hurt them more than it hurt her. When she was ten, she and Eduardo stole two Hershey bars from the local convenience store to celebrate Eduardo's birthday (god knew his family, with six other mouths to feed, wasn't going to remember.) He kissed her while they sat on the edge of the overpass, eating the chocolate. She felt something burst in her stomach - the bubble of childhood was gone.

"You know," Eduardo said, leaning back to look at her, "You'd look really pretty if you dressed like a girl."

"_Callate el osico, gordoto_." Santana spat, even though Eduardo wasn't really that fat. She ran to Maria's house - Maria was the unofficial leader of the _tiburones_. At fourteen, she was big, fast, and would curse out anyone who looked her in the eye. She was also known as the slut of Lima Heights. Santana adored her._  
><em>

"Okay, _perrita_, _escuchame_. You want the boys to look at you, and not just that _babozo_ Eduardo? You take these," she thrust shirts into Santana's arms, "And get different pants. Black. Tight. You use that booty that is the only things we Latinas get and you show off whatever you get up here -" she gestured at Santana's upper body, undeveloped at the age of ten. "Well, what you'll get eventually. Your mama show you how to put on makeup?"

"_Mi abuela_ says that only whores wear makeup." Santana said slowly, staring at the vibrant shades of lipstick and eye shadow Maria was holding.

"Well, _mi abuela_ said God would kill me if I kissed a boy." Maria muttered, unscrewing the cap on the eye shadow, "But we both know that won't happen, right _perrita_?" Santana blushed and let Maria show her how to make boys fall in love with her body.

Two years later, Maria was knocked up and the _tiburones_ more or less disbanded. Santana didn't need them anymore by then. She got out of the shitty elementary school that Lima Heights filtered into and had moved onto the regional middle school, which had the advantage of having more boys. They all followed her ass wherever she walked. They were twelve.

By high school she was at the top of the heap in her neighborhood. After getting the obligatory cuts and scrapes, after proving she was always, at heart, a shark, she gained the respect of even the most fierce of gangs. Mostly because she had sex with all of their leaders in exchange for them staying the hell away from her. She thought it was a pretty good deal, especially if she wasn't stupid about it. Her mother had learned from Maria and gotten Santana on the pill as early as the doctors said it was safe. All the girls around her were using their bodies in exchange for protection, companionship, food. Why shouldn't she?

Joining cheerleading was the logical next step. All the boys in the high school already ogled her. Why shouldn't their fathers, brothers? Why shouldn't the opposing teams? She kind of liked feeling their eyes on her. At least then she knew her outside was beautiful.

Then things got weird.

It happened some time after she joined the Glee club and started thinking that she was more than a nice body and a cheerleading scholarship. She remembered that she could sing, something she hadn't really done since she was little and her mother had forced her into her church's choir. She started hanging out with the boys, and Puck, who wasn't quite Lima Heights Adjacent but was definitely not on the right side of the tracks, had told her she was beautiful. He was probably lying. It was probably one of those things boys said when they fucked. But Santana had felt a rush of pleasure all the same, especially when it was over and he lay next to her and touched her hair and told her again and again how beautiful she was.

And even before that there was that...thing...with Brittney. She loved her Britt more than anyone else in the world, because when she moved that middle school and all the boys were staring at her, Brittney was staring at her too, and asked if she wanted to have a sleepover. It was a nice sleepover. They braided each other's hair and watched Austin Powers movies. They didn't talk about boys or sex or stealing. They talked about school, and their parents, and their feelings. Brittney was the first person, maybe in Santana's whole life, who'd ever cared about her feelings.

That was the heart and soul of it, wasn't it? Brittney had cared and Santana had let herself care and she'd fallen down a slippery slope until she was hopelessly in love with a girl.

.***.

They didn't know she was a lesbian until the commercial ran, because Santana wasn't stupid enough to tell them. There was being proud of who you were and there was being just plain dumb. Announcing to Lima Heights that she was no longer into dick and, according to most liberals, had probably never been that into it in the first place. Apparently she was born this way. Santana couldn't tell you one way or the other if that much was true - she'd definitely liked making out with boys, had felt something when Puck acted aloof and asked her out, had felt something when Eduardo had kissed her on the overpass all those years ago, his mouth tasting like chocolate. But now she would be 100% team gay if it meant being with Brittney.

A week after Sue had shown her the commercial, which was a week after doing Adele and a week after slapping Finn and a week after realizing her life was going to change, Blaine dropped her off near the tracks. (yes, there were literal train tracks, splitting the town in two. how cliche was that?) Looking at the ex-Warbler, you'd never know he lived so close to her side of town, but she was grateful for his proximity, especially when Glee didn't get out until after dark, as it was wont to do a week before a big competition.

"You want me to drive to your house?" It was the same offer Blaine made every time, and Santana always shook her head. Everyone and their mother knew Blaine was gay, but more than that his car was - well, not new, but shiny, and Lima Heights liked shiny things. "At least let me walk you home."

"I don't need a fairy to light my way, thanks." Santana said, and Blaine's eyes darted away from her face, a blush creeping up his neck. And he liked to claim that words didn't hurt. The resident bitch sighed looking at him - he really was only trying to help. "Look, if you walk me home, then I'll have to walk you back to your car, and you'll have to walk me home...you see the endless cycle that can arise from this?"

"I can take care of myself." Blaine said, "I -"

"Started Dalton's branch of Fight Club. I know. Finn told me how you got all Brad Pitt with him in the locker room. And yet you still have bruises on your arms." She nodded to the band of mottled blue skin sticking on his wrist and Blaine pushed down his sleeve. "You can be my knight in shining armor when you can tell your dad to stop whaling on you every night." Santana got out of the car, slammed the door, and walked away without looking back.

There's this law in the universe that states that anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. And the world is nothing but law-abiding (also, slightly sarcastic.) So it would of course be the night that Santana turns down company on the ten-minute walk from the tracks to her home that she gets accosted by people who, yesterday, she would have called her old friends.

As you grew up in Lima Heights, gangs would split and merge, splinter and splice throughout the years. Now Eduardo was the leader of the new _tiburones_ and he stood under the light of a streetlamp, looking nothing like the pudgy little kid she'd kissed. Now he looked lean, and mean, and dangerous.

"_Hola,_ Eduardo_." _Santana could feel people moving from out of the shadows, surrounding her. She turned slowly, hoping no one could hear her heart slamming in her chest. "Jorge. Oscar. Fabio." More and more boys, most she knew, some new faces - young faces. All male._  
><em>

"Rumor has it you turned out to be a lesbo." He moved closer. Santana could smell the cigarettes he'd been smoking, the alcohol he'd drunk. "What, you forgetting all those nights we spent with you on my _polla_?"

"_¡Que te pires, gilipollas!_" Santana spat, moving to go around him. When he grabbed her arm, she spun and used the palm of her hand to push his nose into his skull, breaking it in three places.

...Or, at least, that's what she meant to do. Another boy darted out of the circle, lightning-fast, and grabbed her arm before she could begin to swing it. She stomped on his foot, kicked Eduardo where it hurts, and tried to run.

One, two, three boys caught her, wrestled her against a pole. She shouted at them, every curse in every dialect spoken in Lima Heights. Spanish, Mexican, Columbian, Puerto Rican all came flying out in rapid succession. The boys laughed and held her tighter. One tried to cover her mouth with his hand and she bit it. The blood ran hot and metallic down her throat. The boy she'd bit swore and slapped her face so hard that for a heartbeat the world went white.

"Not her face, _mamonazo!" _Eduardo shouted, shoving one of the boys away, "We want her pretty, don't we?"

They were going to rape her. Ten, twelve boys were going to rape her, humiliate her, violate her, and she couldn't fight them all. She started screaming then - a shrill cry that even people who heard screams every night couldn't ignore.

"Shut her up!"

"_Guarra!_"

"Shut up, bitch!" She felt something long and cool pushed against her neck, trace a line down to her bare stomach. A knife. "Or I'll shut you up."

Santana was sure she'd seen this somewhere. A movie, or a television show. She remembered thinking that, given the choice between rape and being stabbed, she'd go down fighting. She'd go down screaming.

So she screamed again, and Eduardo, who she'd once stolen a candy bar with to celebrate his birthday, who'd been her first kiss, stabbed her in the stomach.

The boys dispersed after that. Or was it after the car came barrelling towards them, someone leaning on the horn? Santana didn't know. She'd already fallen to the ground, and the world was a blur of sounds and voices. She'd always thought being stabbed would hurt like hell, and it did, but it wasn't the pain that made her gasp. It was honest-to-God fear. She could die now. Die in Lima Heights like a dozen other kids she knew, a victim of gang violence, and they'd turn her death into a lesson and force her into a pile of statistics and she'd remain dead.

And she'd never really gotten to have a girlfriend.

The person who was approaching her was definitely male. One of the boys coming back, realizing that a bleeding body is still a warm body? But when the wiry arms wrapped around her she could hear the voice hitch, high and scared. Well, if it had to be a boy who found her, she was glad this boy wasn't into girls. She couldn't stand another scumbag touching her, not today.

"Santana! Oh, Santana, what'd they do to you? I called an ambulance, it's on its way. Did they -? Santana, just nod or..."

"I was only gone for five minutes," Santana muttered. And what a long five minutes it had been. "Do you think they had time?"

Blaine's relief was palpable. He pulled her body onto his lap and put one hand over the gash in her belly and she gasped, bucked her hips against the pain. "Shh...I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. It'll be okay. You'll be okay. I'm so sorry."

They sat like that, Blaine holding her and whispering meaningless things, Santana trying not to black out, for two minutes, three. "Should I call your mom?"

"No..." Santana gasped. Not until they had some good news to tell her. "Britt -"

Blaine nodded and pressed down harder on the wound that was dripping a puddle into the street. Santana blacked out then, sinking into the blissful darkness. Her last thought was that, if someone had to be sitting here with her, holding her, telling her it would be okay, she wished it could have been Brittney.

**.***.**

**this one was prompted by literarylesbian37, who wanted something to go down in lima heights. she wanted santana's girl to save her, but we gave her a gay guy instead. **

**sorry for all the spanish. we thought that was probably how they talked on the "other side of the tracks." mostly they're curse words. **

**if you have an idea for a story where everything goes wrong, drop us a line.**


	13. Marriage Conventions of 1885

**Warnings: None, really, except for the sad frustrations that comes with 19th-century prejudice.**

**Summary: In which Blaine loves Kurt but marries Rachel, and Kurt loves Blaine but marries Brittany, and Sebastian just knows he doesn't like girls but marries Santana. **

_I hear people say "that's not how I define marriage." Well to them I say "love knows no bounds." **Sue, Mash-Up****  
><strong>_

.***.

"We're getting married tomorrow." Kurt said to the love of his life, tears streaming down his face. Because he wasn't marrying the love of his life. The love of his life was a man.

"I can't believe this. It's the nineteenth-century, for God's sake. Not the Middle Ages." Blaine held Kurt tight and kissed him, wishing that he could do this for the rest of his life. Wishing he could do this in a way that wouldn't make the rest of the world mock them, hate them, imprison them.

"The only consolation is that the girls are just as upset as we are." Kurt said with a little laugh. Blaine didn't laugh, just held him tighter and they tumbled onto the bed. "Poor Brittany. You just know she's in love with the serving girl."

"Santana? The one marrying your little Sebastian?" Blaine sat up, disentangling himself from Kurt and pushing his hair out of his face. It was always getting in his face, the dark curls bouncing, refusing to be tamed. Usually he was happy that wigs were in fashion. His hair was embarrassing. "Why is it our households going through all these...dramatics?"

Kurt shrugged, draping an arm around Blaine's shoulders. He'd known Anderson since he was five. The Hummels and the Andersons were the biggest landowners in Kent, both old families with old money, keepers of large households with a dozen servants each. When Kurt was ten, he'd gone to play at his best friend's mansion and had seen the young boy sitting at the piano, singing quietly to himself. He remembered that because it was the instant he'd fallen in love with the younger boy.

As they grew, they would steal moments in forgotten rooms, in back closets. They explored each other's bodies with chance touches, with covetous looks, usually in the darkness, always praying they wouldn't be discovered. What they were doing wasn't just frowned upon by their parents and the church, it was against the law of the land.

"What if we're found out?" Kurt said one day, trying to get out of the bed. Blaine grabbed his arm again and they pressed against each other hungrily, not willing for the moment to end. "No...Blaine, listen. I couldn't live without you. I could stand life in a cell if you were beside me, but to be separated from you for the rest of my life..."

"That won't happen." Blaine said stoutly. "You're matched with the Pierce girl, and I'm marrying Rachel..."

"She's a Jew." Kurt said, rubbing his thumb in a circle on the back of Blaine's hand. "I can't believe your parents are letting your marry a Jew." Which just goes to show that there's all kinds of prejudice all over the place.

"She has money. They're coming around. And I like Rachel. We could...well, our life could be happy together. Not as happy as if I were with you!" Blaine instantly peppered Kurt's face with kisses, "Oh, Kurt. If only we could get married."

"Never in a million years." Kurt said, pushing himself up. "We're abominations. Monsters. You hear what the vicar says about us every week in church."

"I don't know," Blaine said, "I've been studying my Bible. I can't find anything in there about...well, about our kind of relationship."

"Leviticus..." Kurt began, sighing. Who would have guessed that fifty words written thousands of years ago would put such a strain on his life?

But Blaine waved the word away. "The birth of the Messiah cancelled out the old laws. It's why Christians don't keep kosher." Blaine gave him a look that said _you should know this_. Kurt sent back one that said _I don't like the church. _"All I could find was what Jesus said in the Gospels: A new commandment I shall give unto you; that you should love one another."

Kurt couldn't help himself. He kissed Blaine again, and pushed him back onto the bed even though he knew they might be caught. "I'll never love anyone as much as I love you." Kurt breathed into Blaine's halfway open mouth. Tears were streaming down his face. Because life was hopelessly unfair.

"And now we're getting married." Blaine said, leaning his head on Kurt's shoulder, "And we're going to have to lie for the rest of our lives about how we feel about each other."

"Well, when you put it that way I feel much better." Kurt muttered, looking at the door. "Did I ever tell you how I found out about Sebastian?" When Blaine shook his head, Kurt laughed a little, "It was because he found out about us."

Blaine looked at him, wide-eyed and scared, and Kurt laughed a little, "I know. I went down to the kitchen in the morning and he kind of pulled me aside and said that he saw me and you going at it in the Green Room. I was prepared to offer him my entire inheritance to keep quiet, but he said he didn't want money. He was just...interested. Said he'd been feeling some strange urges towards some of the men, especially Finn."

"At least he has good taste." Blaine commented, and Kurt had the grace to blush. He'd confided in his friend once that he thought Finn, the footman, was quite handsome. "Too bad Finn's in love with Rachel. And she with him." But Rachel came from and old and landed family, even if they were Jewish. Her marrying a servant would be absolutely scandalous. Not as scandalous as Blaine and Kurt's relationship becoming public knowledge, but scandalous enough.

"Why can't we just marry who we want? Never mind our parents or convention! Never mind putting on a false front for the neighbors! Love should know no boundaries!"

"You're been reading Oscar Wilde again." Blaine said quietly. "Is this such a bad life? You'll marry Brittany and I'll marry Rachel. Sebastian will eventually marry Santana."

"And we'll all be unhappy for the rest of our days." Kurt said sourly. Blaine reached out to put a comforting pat on his shoulder, but he flinched away. "Brittany loves Santana you know. I see it whenever they're together. She smiles. She never smiles with me. Not really."

"I've seen Brittany smile. When she dances at the balls." Blaine smiled at the memory of a pretty young woman in a long green dress spinning on the dance floor, eyes closed, smiling without a care in the world. And then her eyes would fly open and she'd search the room for the dark servant, and her face would go soft when she looked at Santana.

A knock at the door, and Blaine and Kurt sprang away from each other. Kurt grabbed up the forgotten glass of whiskey on the sideboard and Blaine straightened his suit. They stood posed by the window, as if caught in the middle of a conversation, two happy bride-grooms on the day before their double wedding.

"Blaine, the bed!" And Blaine tugged the comforter on the bed until it was almost straight, as if two young men hadn't just had frustrated sex on it a half-hour before.

Sebastian stepped into the room, his head bowed slightly, and Kurt relaxed. "Oh. It's only you. Close the door, will you Sebastian?" The servant closed the door and positively beamed at Blaine, who rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably.

"I can see why you like him, Mr. Hummel." Sebastian said, devouring Blaine with his gaze, "He's positively sex on a stick."

"Is there something you wanted?" Kurt asked, a little harsher than he would have normally. His hand sought Blaine's and gripped it possessively.

"Rachel is coming to find her husband-to-be. I thought you'd want a little warning. Didn't know if she knew about your...arrangement." Sebastian shrugged, turned to leave.

"Thank you, Sebastian." Blaine said quietly, and the servant turned around and smiled so that the skin around his eyes crinkled. "I guess I should thank you. For not telling anyone about Kurt. He's my everything. If you'd turned him in..."

"We have to stick together, don't we? Anyway, I could never turn Kurt in. You two are...I envy you." Sebastian looked at the ground, shifted slightly, "I envy that you've managed to find each other in this world. The only boy I could see myself with...well, he's always really nice to me, but he likes girls. Which reminds me, Blaine, you're not the best person in Finn Hudson's books right now. I can't see him actually doing anything to you, but maybe stay out of his way for a couple weeks."

"Of course. I know how much Rachel cares for him. I might even tell her about me and Kurt, if it will make her feel less guilty about seeing him after we get married tomorrow."

Sebastian didn't question this odd couple relationship. "One day I hope there will be...oh, I don't even want acceptance. Just non-violence. Disinterest. Someone to repeal the old laws that say I can be thrown in jail if anyone ever knew that I love men. I think that can happen some day. Don't you?"

"No." Kurt said bluntly. "It's a great fairy-tale, but I don't think it's possible for us to ever be accepted by decent people. I can't ever see a time when men like my father will understand how deeply my love for Blaine runs. I know that they would think us no more than animals looking for something to..._get off_ on. And we will always be abominations, and wretched in our wretchedness."

"You can't believe that, Kurt. Things change." Blaine reached for Kurt's hand and he pulled it away, impatient with Blaine's optimism.

Didn't he see? "Things may change. Oceans and continents and trees. But people don't change, Blaine. Not really. And our children and our children's children won't be able to be men meeting men or women meeting women. Because people don't change, and _this_ especially won't change. We are the embodiment of all the nastiness people associate with the nighttime and back alleys. We are Sodom and Gomorrah."

"He gets poetic when he's frustrated." Blaine explained to Sebastian, standing in the doorway with something like shock plastered across his face. Blaine took a few steps towards Kurt and rubbed soothing circles on his back. "Shh...hey, it's okay Kurt. We can still see each other. We can still have all this."

"I want more, Blaine." Kurt whispered to the floor, feeling so embarrassed over his admission because he knew he had it good. He knew he had it better than Sebastian, rubbing his arm in the doorway. The servant would probably never get the chance to be with someone like Kurt and Blaine were together. "I want to marry you and I want everyone to know you're mine. I want to have kids with you. I want to kiss you under Big Ben and in the gardens and not be thrown in prison for it. I want...everything everyone else can have."

"It's not just us." Blaine said quietly. "Rachel loves Finn. She's absolutely over-the-moon about him. And she can't be with him because of this ridiculous business about class and station and propriety."

"I'm still holding out for my fairy-tale world." Sebastian said quietly. "Maybe it won't happen in our lifetimes, Mr. Hummel, but I have to believe there will be a time when people learn to care less about the lives of others. Who are we hurting here in this back room?" He left before Kurt could find a suitable answer.

When they were interrupted again, it wasn't by Rachel but by Brittany, slinking into the room and leaning against the bed post. She looked at the men standing by the window, actually having the conversation they were pretending to have when Sebastian came in the room, and offered them a watery smile. "At least you're getting married on the same day. Next to each other. That's...close. Right?"

Blaine's hand tightened on Kurt's for a half second before he burst into tears.

"Oh, honey." Kurt said, reaching for Blaine so he could rub his back. And Blaine just leaned into him, quaking. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault." Blaine said angrily. "It's the world. Or it's us. What's _wrong _with us?"

"I don't know," said Brittany, sounding thoughtful, "But I just went to see Santana and I made her cry, too. I'm making everyone cry today."

"I think the weddings are making everyone cry." Kurt said, "I thought weddings were supposed to make people happy."

"Two years ago, before I met Santana, I would have been so happy marrying you Kurt. Well, as happy as I would be marrying anyone, and you're so much nicer than John Stevenson or Henry Black. But then I met Santana and everything is so much more...complicated." Brittany collapsed onto the bed, her hair falling like a veil in front of her face. "But we can be a little happy right? You and Blaine can continue what you're doing - everyone knows you're best friends, no one will question your spending time together. And then we'll be here all the time and I can see Santana. And that will be enough. We'll do what it takes to make some babies and maybe we can be...a little happy? Do you think that can happen, Kurt? Can you be a little happy to spend your life with me?"

Kurt let go of Blaine and took his wife-to-be in his arms. "We can be happy, Brit. It won't be perfect but we'll be happy enough. My father expects me to stay on in the house - he'll be lonely by himself - and Blaine's already arranging to by Windy Corner from his father."

"He'll sell it to me. He wants to live in the city anyway." Blaine said quickly, "And of course I'll keep Santana on. If she and Sebastian do end up getting married, I've promised them the small house near the West Wing. It'll be big enough for them to start a family of their own, if they want. And it'd be a nice private place for you girls to get together..."

Brittany got off the bed and kissed Blaine's cheek. "Thank you, Mr. Anderson. You're too kind."

"Call me Blaine. We're sharing a wedding tomorrow. You can call me Blaine."

"Is this a pre-wedding party?" Rachel's brusque voice came before her body as she crossed the room and kissed Blaine's cheek almost exactly where Brittany had just pecked it.

"Hello, darling." Blaine said, looking down at her and managing a genuine smile. "Is everything in order for tomorrow?"

"I'm just worried there isn't enough turkey for all the pies. Miss Nelly insists there is but..." The words tumbled out of her mouth and Blaine pulled her close, holding her against her chest. Her face was wet.

"You're in love with the footman." Blaine sighed, because why couldn't one person in his life be happy with who they were marrying?

"No!" Rachel's voice was high and scared, "No, of course not! Blaine, I love you! Please don't..." Her voice trailed off and she grasped Blaine's hand desperately, bringing it up to her face.

"Oh, honey." Blaine said, shaking his head, "It's okay. I'm so sorry things have to be this way." He looked over at Kurt, who was rigid, stick-straight, waiting for Blaine to dictate their next move. Blaine motioned him to come over and he did, hoping that Rachel would see this for what it was - permission to continue her own relationship. Not something to be feared, or disgusted by. Kurt lifted up his face and Blaine planted a soft kiss on his lips.

Rachel just stared at them.

"I...I love Kurt, honey. And I don't want you to be hurt by this and of course I'm looking forward to building a life with you but...you can still love Finn. Because you won't hurt me if you give him that part of your life. I already gave most of my heart away to Kurt." Blaine held Rachel's hands and squeezed. He took it as a good sign that she didn't pull away, though a flicker of something like disgust did flicker across her face before she remembered her upbringing as a young lady and covered it up.

"All right, Blaine. I won't pretend I understand but...all right." She glanced over at Brittany, still on the bed. "You're okay with this?"

"I guessed it six months ago." Brittany said, shrugging. "Everyone just assumes I don't know anything that's going on, but I knew my fiance never seemed to want to touch me and always wanted to be around his best friend. It was easy enough to figure out."

Rachel turned to Blaine and put her arms around his neck. "Tomorrow we'll get married. We won't be marrying who we want, any of us, but we will get married because..." she struggled to figure out why they must marry if not for love. "Because it's the right thing to do. And one day you will give me babies, or Finn will, and we will raise them to not hate people as our parents do. And maybe that will change something." She turned to the others, suddenly desperate. "Do you think it can change anything?"

Honestly, Kurt didn't think so. But that wasn't the answer Rachel wanted to hear. "Maybe." But he didn't believe it, and when Blaine kissed him again he could taste the salt of tears.

**.***.**

**this was a suggestion from anna who wanted a series of marriages between people who didn't love each other. it sounded suitably sad. also, if they don't sound like they exist in 1885, it's because we exist in 2012 and haven't read quite enough austen to attempt the diction.**

**we're getting around to your suggestions, guys, but send along any other ideas you have for people getting beat up on.**


	14. HIV

**Warnings: Mentions of m/m rape**

**Summary: Blaine was broken by his Senior year, in more ways than one. When he tells Kurt that he has HIV, and he fears his ex does too, a new side to the story of Eli is revealed. **

_"It doesn't matter who I was with Kurt. What matters is that I was by myself. I needed you. I needed you around and you weren't there. And I was lonely and I'm... I am really sorry." **Blaine**_

.***.

Blaine twisted his hands in his lap. They trembled when he held them still, so he kept them moving, moving, fingers twining into configurations that he stared at rather than staring at Kurt. "I need to tell you something."

"You always open conversations like this," Kurt said, his voice high and light, that voice that made something in Blaine feel hot, and cold, feel like it was crumbling in on itself. Sometimes Kurt's voice made Blaine feel like he was shattering apart, and only the high, clear sound of it kept him together. "So serious. My serious Blaine."

_My Blaine_, like he cared, like they were together, like Kurt didn't denounce their relationship every chance they got. Blaine's kept twisting his fingers together, trying to keep his heart from racing. Best not to get hopes up. Kurt was going to hate him. He was prepared for that. He wasn't prepared for _my Blaine._

"I…Kurt, it's really bad." He didn't mean for the last word to break over a sob, had meant to keep it together. Kurt was easily frightened since his dad's cancer.

And just like that Kurt's hands were on his and Blaine knew he could feel them trembling, "Blaine you're shaking." Kurt used one hand to touch Blaine's hair, his cheek, wipe away a hot tear or embarrassment, "Blaine you're scaring me. What's wrong?"

_Everything_.

"I'm so sorry," Blaine choked out, then bit his lip and shook his head and looked at the sky, trying to keep it together. He wouldn't cry. He didn't deserve to cry. "Kurt, I'm so sorry to do this to you."

"You're scaring me," Kurt said again, his voice climbing higher. "Blaine tell me what's wrong!" Kurt's hands were grabbing his again, holding them steady. Anchoring him.

"I went to the clinic," Blaine said, his voice wavering and quavering but not breaking this time because he didn't deserve to be upset. "I…I'm so sorry. I never thought…"

"It's okay," Kurt said quickly, "Whatever it is it's okay. Just tell me. Are you…what's wrong? Is it cancer?"

So quietly it was a whisper, something barely heard, Blaine spoke the truth that would ruin everything, "I have HIV."

Kurt took his hands away.

Blaine gaped at the spot where Kurt had been a moment ago, blinking as his vision fogged with tears. "Please – I didn't even think. I didn't – I'd never hurt you."

"You got it from _him_?" Kurt asked, which wasn't really what he meant to ask. There were so many more important questions, like _how long have you known_ and _are you all right_ and _do you have medicine_ and _how can I help._ But the one that popped out of his mouth was Eli, always Eli.

"Yes. Of course. Kurt, I didn't sleep with anyone else. Just him. Just you."

"Thank god for that," Kurt said, and he couldn't stop the words, even though as soon as they flew out of his mouth he wanted to call them back, "We'd be calling all your boy-toys right now."

_Slut. Worthless. Empty. Miserable. Whore. _Eli's words, and Blaine's own thoughts chased each other in his head and Blaine dipped his body forward until his hands were gripping his head, holding tight. Tears, hot and awful, dripped down his fingers.

"I didn't know how to tell you. I don't want you to think – if I'd known I had it I _never_ would have…we wouldn't have fooled around. If there was even a chance you could get hurt."

Kurt laughed without humor, without mirth, an empty and frighteningly cold laugh. "Well, you really had that down didn't you?" He was crying too, with rage that they were fulfilling a goddamned stereotype. A young gay couple with AIDS. How fucking throwback.

"We were safe," Blaine reminded, quietly. After Eli they'd always been safe, always condoms where they hadn't been any before, because they'd been each other's firsts and they'd trusted each other and hey neither could get pregnant so why not. But after Eli the trust had vanished and there was rubber. "Maybe you won't have it. I hope…Kurt, I pray every second you don't have it. I didn't want this."

And suddenly the protective, angry thing in Kurt melted away and he looked at Blaine, really looked at him. All year he'd been like this – drawn and grey like he was ill, and they'd all chalked it up to breaking up and being lonely and graduating and his goddamned awful father. And all year his body had been eating him up from the inside.

Really looking at him, Kurt reached out, put an arm around shoulders, "My poor puppy."

That's when Blaine really started to cry. That's when he couldn't stop.

.***.

Kurt found a handkerchief in his back pocket, an honest-to-god handkerchief, and the appearance of such an object made Blaine laugh through his tears, slowed the deluge. He blew on the handkerchief and tried to stop crying. He was such a hot mess, and Kurt was just looking at him patiently as if Blaine hadn't ruined both of their lives.

"When did you find out?" Kurt had been mulling over the correct question to ask first and this seemed most neutral, most appropriate.

"I…Sam noticed something two months ago. Symptoms, he said. He asked if I ever got tested after Eli. You're supposed to, I guess, if you feel sick after random hook up. I thought it was just," Blaine half-laughed, a self-deprecatory sound, "heartbreak."

Kurt made a noise in the back of his throat that might have been a suppressed sob.

"So I went."

"Alone?"

Blaine blinked. He'd been alone so often the past year he no longer recognized it as an abnormal state. "I didn't tell anyone. Guess I was embarrassed. Tina or Sam probably would have come if I'd asked." _Probably_.

"And they told you then?"

The dark haired boy turned and stared at Kurt. Blaine's eyes were red, puffy. He looked so sad, so bone-deep tired sad. "I would have told you two months ago. Kurt, I want nothing more than for you to be healthy. I found out three days ago."

"Oh."

"I didn't know how to tell you. I don't know how you're supposed to tell someone something like this." His mind flashed to the picture it'd been flashing to since he'd found out, a short scene from _Rent_ where Roger's girlfriend finds out they're sick and kills herself in a bathtub, leaving behind a note just three words long: WE HAVE AIDS.

Blaine tried to pretend he hadn't thought of doing something similar.

He opened his mouth to apologize again and Kurt cut him off, "Have you told anyone? Do you have medicine? Blaine, you have to tell your father -"

"No."

"But –"

"No! Kurt, he already hates me, already thinks I'm sick with some disease. I'm just proving him right," Blaine was quiet for a long moment, then: "I told Coop."

Kurt breathed out a sigh of relief. At least he wasn't the only one to know. Blaine watched Kurt and didn't talk about how his brother had cried over Skype, how Blaine had sobbed for the first time since his diagnosis when he saw Cooper break. "He said he'd send me money if I needed it. He said money doesn't matter, if it makes me healthy."

"From me too! Blaine, if you need _anything_, any medication – anything to keep you alive."

Blaine almost smiled, and he almost looked like that suave, supremely confident Warbler who'd taken Kurt's hand and promised him courage. Then he crumpled again, "Save it for yourself, Kurt. You might – oh God, if you have it too. I'll never forgive myself. I was so _stupid_."

"Hey," Kurt grabbed Blaine's shaking hands again, held them tight, "Not so stupid. We were safe. We had protection. There's a good chance I'm okay. We're worrying about you today."

Blaine looked like he wanted to protest that, then nodded. They sat in silence for a while, and Blaine looked up at the tree. Why had he chosen to do this in the graveyard, spitting distance from his dead mother, Kurt's dead mother? For the symbolism? Kurt probably thought so, and Blaine would rather him think that than know that this was Blaine's favorite place in all the world now. Life without Kurt had been agonizingly lonely. At least in a cemetery you're supposed to be alone.

Kurt was the one to break the silence. He usually was. Kurt is not a very patient young man. "How did it happen?"

Blaine opened his mouth, and Kurt knew he would apologize again, apologize for Eli and that whole night, for their destroyed relationship, for getting sick, for everything. But thinking about it, Kurt realized he'd never actually gotten a good explanation. "Just – what happened with Eli? Tell me about the whole night."

He almost recanted the question when Blaine looked at him, wide-eyed and sorrowful, like this was his punishment, and Kurt had hit upon the torture that would hurt worst. "He friended me on Facebook. He knew one of the Warblers, I think."

"Sebastian?" Kurt didn't know why he was so hung up on Sebastian, except that he knew the Warbler was more handsome than he, and less overtly gay, and had a huge crush on Blaine.

"No, not Sebastian. I don't know who. One of them. So he asked if I wanted a drink. You were ignoring me – which was no excuse, and you'd just started your job and you were so excited and I knew I should be happy for you but I was sad and you weren't and I was…jealous. I wanted to feel…I don't know. Special. Loved. Wanted." Blaine sighed, looked away. It all sounded so dumb now.

And then he told the truth, the truth he hadn't told anyone, though he'd wanted to spill it to Kurt, to Sam, so many times. "I didn't want to sleep with him."

Kurt's fingernails dug into the back of Blaine's hands and the hurt was a good kind of hurt, the best kind.

"What?" Kurt breathed, thinking about all the hours and days he'd spent thinking about Blaine's betrayal, about how he wasn't enough for his alpha gay boyfriend. "He – oh my god. He raped you?"

Kurt's voice rose into almost a shout and Blaine seemed to collapse in on himself, cowering away from the sound. Of course Kurt was mad. Why wouldn't he be? Blaine was supposed to be the good, strong one, not the cowardly lion.

"It wasn't…I didn't get raped." He said this as a statement, as if he'd repeated it so often it must be true. "He bought me drinks and asked if I wanted to watch _Star Wars_."

"You're such a sucker for _Star Wars_."

"I really am," Blaine tried to smile. He hadn't been able to watch the movies, his favorites, his mother's favorites, since that night. Even hearing the music made him feel violently ill. "It was late and it was nice just to sit with someone and talk. He kept coming onto me but I told him I had a boyfriend and we were in love and…I'm sorry, Kurt."

"Please stop saying you're sorry." Kurt said, offering a small smile. "I know you're sorry. _I'm_ so sorry this happened to you."

"He…well, he hadn't had as much to drink as I had, I guess, and he was taller – everyone's taller than me – and strong. He kissed me and I stood up to go and he pulled me back down and then he was -" _in, out, licking, biting, binding, holding, squeezing, "such a good little whore," _"everywhere."

"Oh Blaine," he looked up at the tears in Kurt's voice, surprised anyone else cared enough to cry over him. "Why didn't you tell me? Why'd you say you slept with him?"

"I did," Blaine said, quietly confused. "We were supposed to be each other's firsts. And onlys. And I ruined that."

"Blaine – oh honey, that doesn't count. What he did to you was so wrong. But _you_ did _nothing_ wrong."

"I did," Blaine said, his voice shaking, tears dripping down his nose, his chin, "I was…hard. He said I had to be enjoying it if I was hard. He made me come. I liked it. I must have."

Kurt lifted Blaine's hand, nuzzling it against his cheek, kissing the fingertips, and Blaine gasped and stared at him, wide-eyed, "No. It was rape. You didn't want it and you told him to stop. It was rape, and no matter what your body did during you didn't want it to happen."

Blaine shook his head, pulled his hand away, "I let him buy me drinks."

Kurt grabbed Blaine's hand again, squeezing tight, "did he hurt you?"

A long, long pause, and Kurt's heart leaped towards his collar bone, his throat, and then a soft reply, "It hurt. It – I've never been…_that_ part before." He looked at Kurt, who blushed furiously, even though he'd known he was a bottom since the first time he'd heard about the configurations of gay sex. "It hurt so much. Did I hurt you like that?"

"What – no! I would have told you. With you it was wonderful."

Relief spread across Blaine's face like a wave, smoothing lines as it went, as if that one answer assuaged the majority of Blaine's worries. "I was thinking about it the whole time. Over and over, I could just think _I hope Kurt didn't feel like this. I hope he didn't hurt_."

"It hurt a little," Kurt said, daring to come closer to Blaine, to snuggle against him, "It always does. But it's the good kind of hurt. The Mellencamp kind."

Blaine nodded, and Kurt wrapped his arms entirely around the smaller boy's body. Somehow Kurt was taller, and Blaine was the small one, had always been the small one. But now he was heartbreakingly thin, with a concave stomach and feather bones and a heartbeat fast as a hummingbird's wings.

"I wish you'd told me that back at the beginning," Kurt said, "It never would have…I was mad because I thought you cheated on me. Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you say you'd been raped?"

"I didn't deserve you," Blaine said, the words mumbled into Kurt's arm. "After what I did," _whore, slut, worthless, pig, lonely, miserable, empty_, "I didn't deserve you."

"I'm so sorry he did that to you."

"I'm sorry if I got you sick. I – when I heard I had HIV the first thing I thought of was you. I don't care what happens to me. You're too good for that."

Kurt just shook his head and tipped Blaine until the other boy was nearly in his lap, and he kept saying over and over again that he was fine and Blaine would be fine, and they'd get him medicine and they'd treat it and he'd live forever, and he said that Blaine was strong and smart and Eli was low and cruel and Blaine didn't deserve what happened to him, and Blaine wasn't a slut and he wasn't a whore and he was just _his_, just _Kurt's_, and they' be together forever and they'd be whole and beautiful and happy.

Maybe, Kurt thought, if he said it enough Blaine would start to believe it. Because Kurt believed every word he said, with every fiber of his being, and it broke his heart that Blaine thought of himself as something so disposable.

"You're mine," Kurt said over and over, trying not to think of the symbolism of a cemetery, "You're good and beautiful and you're mine." And that's all that mattered.

**.***.**

**ah well, a disappointing season for glee but at least we got some good relationships in. thought we'd revisit this story with some of them.**

**if anyone wants to see characters in some good old h/c situations, say it in a review and we'll see if we can make it happen. y'all get the power here. we're just the humble writers along for the ride.**


	15. Stalker

**Warnings: Some violence; stalker situation**

**Summary: Rachel usually likes it when people complim****ent her singing, but after one date Kyle already seems weirdly possessive. She ignores the problem until he threatens Kurt. Then it gets personal.**

_**Finn:** I was trying to give you your freedom._  
><em><strong>Rachel:<strong> I don't need you to give me my freedom. I am a grown woman. I don't need you to hide from me to keep me from doing what is right for me._

.***.

"You were amazing."

Rachel pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and looked up at the person behind the compliment, smiling a little. A year at NYADA, almost, and most of the time after voice class all she heard was frustrated muttering about how she ate up all the class time with questions that didn't apply to anyone else. Like it was her fault they all didn't have a callback for _Funny Girl_ in three weeks.

"Thank you," she said, straightening the purse on her shoulder and stretching out a hand automatically. "I don't think we've actually met. I'm Rachel Berry."

The man chuckled (they were _men_ in college, weren't they? Rachel was always struck the grown-up-ness of them, the ones who weren't slim and gay, the ones who were muscular and wore glasses and had rumpled hair and dimples and abs and deep voices. Men now, suddenly transformed since high school) "I know who you are. I'm Kyle." No last name, but that was okay. Rachel said hers more out of habit than anything, and Kurt was always trying to get her to stop (_we live in New York now. Can you be safe for once?_)

"This is probably going to make me sound really gay," Kyle said, falling into step with her as she walked out of the room, "but every time you sing I cry."

"I cry every time I sing too," Rachel admitted, "we make a good pair."

"Yeah, two people crying at the drop of a hat. A great pair."

"If we watched _Titanic_ together we might just drown ourselves," Rachel said this absent-mindedly, mostly because she was struck by Kyle's good looks. Out in the hallway, in the natural light that spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, she could see his hair, light brown and tousled, see his nice grey eyes and big lips and straight nose that made him look – well, it made him look reliable and comfortable and handsome.

And then he stopped walking suddenly and Rachel had to back up a few steps to stay with him, "we could watch _Titanic_ together," he said, and his voice was different, jarring somehow, pleading, and Rachel remembered Kurt begging her to be safe in New York with all the crazies.

"Maybe. Sometime."

"Friday?"

He was good-looking and he complimented her singing and he had a nice deep rich voice and he was a _boy_ and what could she do? She smiled, "Friday sounds great."

.***.

"You've got a _what_?"

"A date, Kurt. And before you ask it's not Brody and he certainly doesn't look like a prostitute and no, I haven't told Finn and would really appreciate it if you didn't tell him either."

Kurt, standing next to the stove with an apron around his waist, shook his head and stirred the turkey and lentil soup he'd made to get him through more _West Wing _on Netflix. "I don't like lying to Finn."

"Don't lie. Just don't mention it."

"He's my brother, Rach. And he calls, like, three times a week. And he always asks about you." Kurt thought it was kind of sweet, actually. Finn would call, saying he was standing in line for groceries or going out to get the mail, five-minute conversations. When Kurt questioned him about it Finn just mumbled something about not having a brother before, and not wanting to mess up this relationship too, since he always seemed to be messing up something.

"Okay, but please?" Rachel wasn't listening, and Kurt suspected she never did when he was actually saying something important. She was doing her make-up in the mirror. "Do I need to show you a picture again?"

He was going to lose this battle, so why bother? "No. Go have fun with you baby Rob Lowe."

"I will!" Rachel said, already heading for the door and wiggling fingers over her shoulder, "try not to turn into a boring old woman before I get back!"

Kurt ladled some of the soup into a bowl, "in order to do that I'd have to get a cat…" he muttered, picking up his phone. After a second's hesitation, he sent a short text to Blaine, and then dialed a different number. "Hey Finn! How's Ohio?"

.***.

Rachel came back from her Friday night _Titanic _date with smudged makeup and a ripped shirt. Kurt, who'd had a very pleasant evening talking about Rob Lowe with Blaine, paused the sixth _West Wing_ episode that night and looked up at her. "What's wrong? Did something happen?"

"New York is not filled with nice boys," Rachel said stiffly, standing in the middle of the room like she didn't know if she wanted to sit with Kurt or cry in her room or take a long, hot shower.

She didn't have to decide though, since Kurt was already off the couch and pulling her into a hug. He was taller than her by nearly half a foot and she fit against him well. "Can this be fixed by chocolate or do we need to call in reinforcements to make sure he gets his face pounded in? I can pull Santana back from Lima if we need her."

Rachel laughed and it sounded like she wanted to cry but she was shaking her head. "He just got so…weird. He knew all this stuff about me. The train I took, and where we live, and where I went to high school. He said he'd watched out Nationals performance on YouTube a dozen times."

"The one where we win or the one where you and Finn make out for a very awkward thirty-six seconds?"

Rachel just stared at him, and Kurt let her go gently, going through the motions of making a pot of tea, getting out the emergency bar of chocolate. "It sounds like you have a stalker. I'd drop him."

"Stalkers don't happen in real life," Rachel protested, "not unless you're famous."

"Of course they happen in real life. Do you never watch _NCIS?"_

"That's not real life."

"Well the stories come from somewhere. Drop him, Rachel."

She collapsed on the couch, sticking her head up from over the back of it to watch as Kurt prepared her chai tea like she liked it, with lots of milk and a little sugar. "I already did. I told him had a very pleasant evening but perhaps we should go our separate ways."

"Sheesh. Break his heart why don't you."

Rachel didn't say anything, and she didn't tell Kurt about how Kyle had gotten mad after that, and had kissed her, and she'd never been kissed angrily before but it made her feel small and dirty, and she'd left after that and he'd followed her and tried to grab her arm and ripped her shirt.

Kurt wouldn't understand. He'd get worried, and insist on changing locks and maybe moving, insist on Santana coming back from visiting home early. Worst of all, he'd insist on telling Finn, who couldn't know, could never know. But Kurt was paranoid about New York, about the dangers of the city. Rachel knew how to be safe, and Kyle may not be the nicest guy but he wasn't crazy enough to do anything to hurt them.

Right?

.***.

Over the course of the next week, Rachel found herself wishing she'd said something to Kurt on Friday night, had told him the whole story. Because on Saturday she received a dozen texts from Kyle, apologizing for his behavior. WE CAN STILL BE FRIENDS. I'M SORRY I MOVED SO FAST. IT'S JUST THAT I FEEL LIKE I ALREADY KNOW YOU.

On Sunday, it was roses delivered, scarily, right to the apartment, the card apologizing again. She told Kurt they were from her dads, another congratulations on getting the callback.

Monday there were more texts, one of them asking her if they could meet up at school, another one complimenting her red heels. She looked around after the second one, but couldn't see Kyle anywhere. She felt very much like changing her shoes. She also felt like being sick.

(oh why hadn't she told Kurt? but if she told him now he'd be mad at her for lying, and she didn't need to be in a fight with her only friend, not now.)

Tuesday there was a letter addressed to her sticking out of the door to her apartment, a nine page love letter telling Rachel about what a great life they could have together if she would just give him a chance, and oh by the way of course he knew where she lived, he'd always know where she was. She tore up the note and threw it down the toilet and sat on the sink and cried silently while the pages were washed away. Even as she did it she knew she was getting rid of evidence, and she couldn't quite bring herself to care. She just wanted the words gone.

(she should call Finn, or her dads. she could even tell . someone had to know what was going on.)

Wednesday there was a dozen roses on her seat in vocal class, and Kyle was watching her as she picked them up, watching her as she cut her hands on the thorns that had been left on, watching her as she tried very hard not to cry.

And then Thursday…oh, she almost broke on Thursday, when she had gotten back to the apartment after a Kyle-free day and Kurt was there doing Skyping Blaine and laughing and he'd waved a hand at her and said, "Rachel, I'm not a messanger, okay? Tell that crazy stalker to stop giving me letters for you."

The letter he was referring to was on the table, and RACHEL was printed on it in Kyle's peculiar block letters, and while Kurt told Blaine about New York pizza and Blaine looked at him like he'd hung the moon, Rachel opened the envelope and took out the newest letter. It was short, only a few lines:

_Rachel – if you won't respond maybe he will. I know where both of you live. I know when he's alone. I know how to make him scream. When he's gone there will be no one there for you but me._

Rachel read the letter and put a hand over her mouth. Blaine, who could see her from the computer, asked, "you alright? Rachel? Are you okay?"

Which made Kurt turn around, "What was in the letter? An apology I hope."

"You didn't read it?"

"Unlike some people," Kurt said, already turning back to Blaine, "I was raised to be polite."

Rachel went into the bathroom and turned on the shower so the boys wouldn't hear her be sick.

.***.

She had to tell Kurt, and Finn. She had to tell the _police_. Kyle had been creepy before now, maybe a little attached, a little possessive, and he'd watched her and followed her and all right she'll admit it he stalked her. But he hadn't threatened violence before, now, not overtly, not really.

_I know how to make him scream_.

If she told the police and everyone her dads would make her leave the city, and then what was probably an empty threat would mean the end of everything.

But if it wasn't an empty threat – and Kyle seemed to have been building up to this – Rachel would die if something happened to Kurt that she could have stopped. And Finn would never be able to look at her again. And that would mean the end of everything.

It was Friday morning in May, and she got up to make coffee, because this kind of news should be broken over coffee. She stared out the window as the sun came up in the strange staggered way, with the irregular shadows of skyscrapers to block it in places, and waited for Kurt to wake up. It wasn't until she'd drained her cup that she caught sight of the note on the counter:

_Rachel – Blaine got into NYADA! Was up all night talking to him so went out to get those crumb cakes you wanted from 10th street. I'll probably be back before you read this. Isn't it a lovely morning? –Kurt_

Rachel ran her fingers over the words. It was Kurt's easy cursive, beautiful from far away but a real mess up close. She could feel his excitement through the words, and even smiled a bit on the word "lovely." It's amazing that someone living in such close quarters to her drama would think this day was lovely. But of course, the fact that he was in that frame of mind was entirely Rachel's fault.

She sent Kurt a text: I'M UP. WHERE'S THE CRUMB BUNS? I NEED TO TALK TO YOU.

Picking up her coffee again, she tried to concentrate on making another pot for Kurt and burned it. She was about to put on another one when the door opened and she turned to say good morning. And went completely still.

Kurt was standing there, white bag from her favorite bakery in hand. But Kyle was there too, and he had a gun resting against Kurt's forehead.

"Kurt!" Rachel nearly screamed. It was a reflex, and she put her hands over her mouth when Kyle pressed the gun into Kurt's temple, making her friend wince.

"Rachel," he said lightly, "I feel like there's something you weren't telling me about Kyle. Care to fill me in?"

"You didn't tell him?" Kyle asked, but it didn't really sound like a question. His voice was without inflection, as monotone as a robot.

"I – I was going to tell him this morning. I was scared," she didn't take her eyes off Kurt, "I'm so sorry. I didn't know he'd – how'd he find you?"

"He was waiting at the bottom of the stairs," Kurt said, and Rachel almost sobbed at how he tried to sound like he wasn't scared, but of course he couldn't hide the trembling. His whole body vibrated, he was shaking so hard. "You really know how to pick 'em, Rach."

"Shut your mouth," Kyle said in that same inflectionless voice. He hit Kurt with his gun, a blow right to the head, and Kurt _crumpled_.

"Don't! Please don't hurt him! He didn't do anything!" Rachel moved towards Kurt, a few hurried steps, but Kyle still had a gun to his head, and there was that ominous click like in the movies.

"Any closer and he's dead."

Rachel stopped.

"Get up," Kyle said, as if he was inquiring about the weather. Kurt held his head, and a drop of blood leaked through his fingers onto the throw rug. He didn't move. "Get up!" Kyle didn't change his tone the second time, just punctuated his command to a kick in the ribs. Kurt yelped, pitching forward even as he scrambled sluggishly to his feet.

"Please please please," Rachel didn't remember when she started to say the word, but it was like she couldn't stop, "Please don't….he didn't do anything! He didn't know! Don't hurt him!"

Kyle turned, seeming to see her for the first time, "this isn't about him. It's about you and me. I gave you lots of things to make you want to be with me and you never replied. Do you want to be with me?"

"Wh—_yes_! Of course I want to be with you Kyle! We had such a good time together, and you're such a nice guy. Who wouldn't want to be with you?" Her performance would have been better if she hadn't sobbed every word. She was staring at Kurt's face, at his eyes unable to really focus, at the blood streaming down one cheek.

"You don't sound like you mean it." It would have been less scary if Kyle yelled. The inflectionless tone was terrifying. Emotions show your vulnerability. How do you find the weak spots in a machine?

Before Rachel could find an answer Kyle turned and in one fluid motion punched Kurt in the face and kicked him in the stomach. When he fell to the ground he kicked him again. And again. And again.

"I never sound like I mean love when I talk!" Rachel found herself shouting over Kurt's screams of pain. She was crying so hard she was surprised she could talk. Kurt, oh Kurt, who had called it _a lovely morning_ in his letter. She'd been the one to put him in this position. "Fi—everyone always tells me that. Will you believe me if I sing my love?"

"I like it when you sing," Kyle said, and the words went up at the end. Hopeful. Happy. Emotion.

Kyle dragged a chair over so he could sit with the gun on Kurt's temple and listen to Rachel sing. Rachel forced herself to stare into Kyle's eyes, so that he would believe her but mostly so that she wasn't looking at Kurt, who was shaking, whimpering.

For a bizarre moment Rachel couldn't think of anything but Kurt, crying as he sang "I Wanna Hold Your Hand," and then Blaine, crying as he sang "Teenage Dream." She almost sang that, the first words nearly out of her mouth before she stopped herself. "Teenage Dream" was Kurt and Blaine's song, their relationship in a couple of verses and a chorus. She wouldn't taint it with this memory.

So instead she started in the middle of a song, _"Near…Far…Wherever you are…"_

"_Titanic_," Kyle murmured, and there was definitely warmth in his voice, "It's our song, Rachel. Our movie."

There was no way out of this. She would stop singing and he would get mad and kill Kurt and then – kill her? Steal her away? He was big, nearly as big as Finn, and he didn't have his glasses on now. Somehow that made him look very, very strong.

By the time she got to the end she was slowing the words down so much even Kyle, in his insanity, had to notice. She was hoping for something in a tv show, where the police come or her old boyfriend shows up or the dog from downstairs leaps in unexpectedly. But she'd told no one, and no one would suspect they were in danger. Maybe no one would even notice them missing until tomorrow, or even Monday. She could die here. It would be just that simple.

"So beautiful," Rachel realized Kyle had tears in his eyes when he said these words, and she wanted to be sick. "My beautiful girl."

That's when Kurt's arm shot out and grabbed the gun that was pointing at his head. He scrambled out of the way before Rachel even knew what was happening.

"You stupid faggot!" Now the emotion was there. Kyle lunged for Kurt, who scurried away, looking quickly between the gun and Rachel.

"Call the police!" He shouted, fumbling with the weapon as Kyle ran at him again, screaming abuses.

Rachel grabbed the phone behind her just as the gun went off.

.***.

"We had a real stalker," Kurt said, and laughed a little.

Burt shook his head, "this is no laughing matter." But Kurt just laughed and eventually Rachel started laughing too, and Blaine, who was sitting in Kurt's hospital bed and charming the nurses to let him stay there. Even Finn laughed, though he'd been looking murderous all afternoon.

"Technically," Rachel said after five minutes of laughing so hard her stomach hurt, "I had a stalker. You just intercepted him."

"I have the wounds," Kurt said, waving a hand dismissively. "No one will ever believe anything this interesting could have happened to you. You don't have one scratch."

"Maybe I can use this to write a play…" Rachel said thoughtfully. When Finn nudged her shoulder and she caught sight of Burt's stricken face she said, quickly, "Anyway Kurt, you wouldn't have a scratch either if you didn't have to be all heroic."

"He can't help himself," Blaine said, twining his fingers with Kurt's in a way that made Finn fake gagging noises, "he's always so courageous."

Kurt pushed Blaine with his shoulder, but didn't seem to mind their hands staying firmly together. "Thanks for teaching me that fight club stuff. I wouldn't have been able to do it without you."

Blaine kissed him, and Finn really got into the fake gagging act.

"Maybe we can lay off the courage a little?" Burt said in a strangled tone. "If there's guns involved? Can we agree on that much?"

"I don't think we're going to get a psycho again, dad," Kurt said, looking a little dizzy (which had a little to do with the concussion and a lot to do with Mr. Teenage Dream's kissing abilities.) "I think you're only allotted one stalker her lifetime. And that one's going to jail with my bullet in his arm."

"I think they took the bullet out," Finn put in.

"I was being poetic, thanks Finn."

"Oh."

Rachel leaned against him and let him rub his hand over her hair. She'd shown the police the letter Kyle had given to her through Kurt, and they promised her he wouldn't be out of jail anytime soon. Somehow Finn didn't hate her, and Kurt forgave her, and Blaine hugged her, and Burt gave her a kiss on the top of the head, and her dads were on their way, and everything seemed almost like it was going to be okay.

(except for Kurt's injuries: a cracked rib and bruised kidney, a concussion and laceration to the scalp and split lip; except for Rachel's nightmares, her new avoidance of men, especially ones who liked her singing; except for the fact that they didn't trust anyone anymore, not really.

it seems like the bad guys always win, in the end.)

**.***.**

**thanks to "lady luna riddle" for suggesting the story (and having a pretty sweet pen name). if you want to see your favorite character put into a good ol' h/c situation, drop us a line (or you can just tell us how you liked the story. or didn't like it. we're not picky.)**


End file.
